by Anita Mills
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Nahdehwah grunted.
“Where’s Nahakoah? Where’s Clay McAlester?” Amanda tried again.
“Nahakoah—yes,” the old woman said, nodding.
“Yes—where is he?”
“Nahakoah.”
There had to be someone somewhere who spoke English, but she had no way to find out. Instead, she reached out and touched the medicine woman’s shoulder. “You,” she said.
“Me. Nahdehwah,” the woman acknowledged.
Laying a hand on her own breast, Amanda said distinctly, “Me. Amanda.”
“You Uh-manduh.”
“Yes.” Pointing to the tipi flap, Amanda tried to build on the small start. “Nahakoah?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Instead of answering, Nahdehwah refilled the dipper and brought it back. “You take.”
As she tipped the gourd, Amanda looked over the rim at the woman’s black birdlike eyes. They were fixed on her.
“I suppose you could tell me a lot about him, if I could understand you,” Amanda murmured, sighing. “What was he like as a boy? Was he always so sober?”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t really an answer, for the old woman had no idea what she was asking. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “You might as well get some sleep.”
But Nahdehwah didn’t budge. Instead, she kept those bright little black eyes on Amanda. “You—Nahakoah paraibo.”
When she saw McAlester, she was going to have to ask what a paraibo was, but right now she couldn’t make much sense of anything.
“You paraibo,” she said more insistently.
Now she was confused. “No, me Amanda.” Lord, but she was beginning to sound like the old woman. Somewhat unnerved by the piercing stare, she decided the sound of her own voice was better than nothing. “I don’t suppose you want to hear about Boston, do you? No, I don’t guess so,” she answered herself. “All right, then—how about my father? His name was John Ross—John P Ross. The P was for Patrick. The Rosses came from Scotland, which is a long way from here. Some of the Presbyterian ones were sent to Ireland in hopes of countering the Catholic population there, but Papa was descended from those who favored Mary, Queen of Scots, and when she was captured in England, they went to France, so they were Catholic.”
The old woman didn’t even blink.
“I don’t suppose Catholics and Protestants mean much to you, do they?”
Nothing.
“Half of Boston is Catholic.” Seeing that Nahdehwah’s expression didn’t change so much as a flick of an eyelash, Amanda went on conversationally, “My mother was Spanish—her family came from Spain more than a hundred and fifty years ago. Her father held a land grant in Texas, and—”
The old woman interrupted her. “No Tejanos!” she spat out angrily.
“You don’t like Texans?”
“No Tejanos!”
“All right—we won’t talk about them. You don’t know anything about Boston, but it is one of the oldest cities on the East coast, and—”
Apparently, Nahdehwah had heard more than enough. She walked to the firepit, where she stirred the coals, then went back to her bed. Within minutes, she slept.
The drums had stopped. Amanda lay down, listening for them, hearing nothing beyond Nahdehwah’s snores. McAlester was out there somewhere, but she had no way of knowing what he did or where he was. The stillness outside was more deafening than the drums.
Turning her back to the firepit, she crossed her arms over her breasts, clasping her arms, embracing herself. And in her loneliness, she realized what she really wanted was for Clay McAlester to hold her, to keep her safe.
Clay had come outside to escape the heat and smoke of Ketanah’s tipi for a few minutes, excusing himself for a call of nature. What he really needed was a full night’s sleep, but the old peace chief had put on quite a feast for him. So while the Crow Warriors held their scalp dance at the other side of the Indian camp, he’d been feted with such delicacies as the bloody milk in a fresh-slain cow’s udder and the animal’s warm, raw liver. Somewhere in the past fourteen years, he’d lost his taste for both, and now they sat uneasily in his stomach.
Ketanah was expecting him back, but he needed to stretch his legs and clear his mind first. So he wandered aimlessly between tipis, listening to the night sounds. The sky above him was black, cloudless, and dotted with stars. Overhead, the moon’s profile smiled.
He was at Nahdehwah’s before he realized where he’d been going. He paused there, wondering if Amanda slept. Probably. He turned back, thinking he ought to get back before Ketanah thought he’d left the village. But he wasn’t really in the mood to listen to every buck and old man spin stories. He was almost too tired to think.
Behind him there was the light scuffing of moccasins on hard earth, the hushed, furtive giggle of a girl sneaking beneath a tipi skin to lie with a young buck. He remembered that well, for by the time he’d turned fourteen, there’d been half a dozen girls coming to him, each hoping he’d offer horses to her father. Once he’d come close, when White Blossom’s belly had grown round, but a man with the unlikely name of Buffalo Belly had come forward to claim her and the child. And everyone was too polite to notice that the son she bore him had golden skin and eyes.
That was the way of the Comanche—it was the girls who were supposed to start things, the boys who were supposed to be bashful. It saved a man a lot of face—before he took horses to her parent’s tipi, he knew she was going to accept his proposal. In the civilized world of the white man, everything was reversed. A man took the risk of making a fool of himself, and if the woman accepted, he still didn’t know what he was getting until it was too late. By the time he got to bed her, he was already married to her.
He stood there a moment, then retraced his steps back to Nahdehwah’s tipi. Because of the heat, she’d left the door flap open.
“Grandmother?” he said softly, giving her the respect due her age.
It was pitch-black within, but he could hear her stir. Her flat, callused feet shuffled across the hard-packed dirt floor, then she peered outside. Her black eyes reflected the moon.
“Can it not wait for morning?” she asked sourly. Then she recognized him, and her scowl softened. “Nahakoah,” she murmured, touching his face.
“How is she?”
“Nearly well.”
“Already?”
The old woman nodded. “You tell no one, but it was the pulke and the water. When she drank enough, her mind came back. Now her body will follow.”
“What do you think of her?” he wanted to know.
“She talks too much.”
“About what?”
Nahdehwah shrugged again, then her wrinkled face broke into a wide smile. “Nahakoah.”
“Old Woman, you don’t speak English,” he reminded her.
“She knows your Comanche name. Nahakoah, she says many times.” She looked up slyly. “I am old, but I can sleep outside,” she offered.
He could just see a lucid Amanda Ross waking up beside him. No, he had no illusions about that, and it was probably just as well. He didn’t need anyone complicating his life any more than she already had.
“No. I just want to look at her.”
She stepped back from the flap to let him inside. The only things he could actually see were a few live coals. He looked around, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
“Over there,” Nahdehwah said. As she spoke, she threw a handful of dry grass into the firepit. It flared, casting a flickering orange light. “Behind you.”
He took a step backward and nearly stumbled. Turning around, he saw her. She was lying on her side, her face turned into the crook of her arm, her hair spilling over it. He reached out almost gingerly, lifting it. Where his fingertips brushed her skin, she was cool. He felt an overwhelming relief. She stirred, changing positions, and he could
see the black salve smeared on her cheeks. It didn’t make any difference—she still looked a lot better than he’d expected.
His gaze moved lower, taking in the curve of a breast, the roundness of a hip covered with calico cloth, and he had to remind himself she wasn’t meant for him. Reluctantly, he tore himself away and retreated outside.
Nahdehwah followed him. ‘Two days, then you take her to your lodge.”
He hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. He shook his head. “I’ve got to leave soon—and she can’t go with me.” Seeing her frown, he hastened to add, “I’d hoped to come back for her.”
The old woman’s lips pursed as though she’d eaten a persimmon, then she turned away. “You did not come to stay,” she said sadly.
“No, but I’d have you keep Amanda until I return.”
“Without you, she does not belong here. I had hoped—” She caught herself and sighed. “But it does not matter. All my sons are dead, Nahakoah.”
“I know.”
“It is hard to be an old woman, even an old medicine woman,” she went on, her voice low. “The sons of others must bring me food. It is left to those who share no blood of mine to call me grandmother. But you, Nahakoah, were son to Ekatonah, my sister’s daughter.”
“Yes.” He knew what she wanted—she wanted him to stay and provide for her, and he couldn’t. “When I come back, I’ll hunt a deer for you,” he promised her.
“She cannot live in my tipi—when she is well, her presence will take my power. The eagle will not come when I call him.”
He couldn’t argue, for medicine was a sacred thing. “All right,” he said finally, “I’ll ask someone else to take her.”
Feeling beleaguered within and without, he made his way back to Ketanah’s lodge. He hadn’t missed much. Two Owls was recounting his successful raid “beyond the Tejanos.” He had, he declared with sweeping gestures, “counted coup by taking enemy scalps and stealing many horses.”
Apparent jealousy prompted a Comanche to scoff, “Where are these horses now? And why do you not feast with the Crow Warriors?”
The Kiowa regarded him balefully for a moment, then answered. “We had to eat two of them, but the rest I sent with One Hand to Quanah Parker to be traded when the Comancheros come.” He drew himself up proudly, adding, “If you had chosen to follow the war trail, you would have seen me steal them.”
“You pass wind with your mouth,” his tormentor said, sneering. “Why would a great war chief like Quanah do such business for you?” he demanded sarcastically.
“He is related to one of my wives,” Two Owls declared haughtily. “His father was her uncle, and that is enough for him to call me brother.”
To stop the dispute, Ketanah raised his hand. “There is no room for angry words in my lodge.” Turning to the Kiowa, he said, “I’d hear more of these Comancheros, brother. When do they come?”
“Very soon. They wait for a Tejano to bring the wagons across the border, then they will have many guns to trade for good horses and fat cattle.” Looking past the chief to the Comanche who’d started the argument, he gibed, “When Holds His Tongue sees that Two Owls has a gun that shoots a bullet for every finger, he will know he is a fool.”
“A bullet for every finger!” Holds His Tongue snorted.
But Ketanah was suitably impressed. “I have many horses myself,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I might want some of these guns.”
Another of the Indians who’d followed the war trail with Two Owls spoke up. “I heard that when Quahadis join with the Cheyenne and the Kiowa for the Sun Dance, they will share these guns with those who smoke the war pipe with them.”
Two Owls nodded smugly. “It is so.”
“Comancheros wait for a Tejano to give them guns to sell Comanches. And Comanches and their Cheyenne enemies smoking a war pipe together. Never in nearly forty winters have I heard such a thing,” Ketanah said, shaking his head.
“It is time the Comanche must join his Kiowa and Cheyenne brothers to drive the Anglos from this land. If we do not stand together, soon there will be no buffalo anywhere and we will become women waiting to be fed what we would not eat. Already too many of our people have gone tamely from places we lived long before the whites came. If we do not fight them now, they will take everything we have from us and leave us only what they do not want!” Two Owls declared, shaking his fist emphatically.
A murmur of agreement passed around the fire. Clay sat there, his face betraying nothing, listening. Already he’d learned enough to know why the rangers’ planned ambush had failed. Without any telltale wagons, Sanchez-Torres had probably hidden in plain sight in border cantinas, waiting for a Texan to betray his own people.
“You know this Tejano who sells these guns?” Ketanah asked, turning to him. “You have heard of him, Nahakoah?”
Clay shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’d have to hear his name to know.”
“The Comancheros do not even tell Quanah that,” Two Owls said smugly. “The Tejano will not be with them when they come.”
Ketanah puffed thoughtfully on the long pipe, then passed it to his left. As Clay took it, the chief decided, “Let us speak no more of guns and Quanah tonight. Tomorrow I will send someone to the Quahadis to hear more of this Sun Dance. To rid our lands of Tejanos, I myself am willing to follow the war trail. Though I have grown old, and my own time to lead Nokonis in battle has passed, I will gladly follow the Crow Warriors. Let them choose a war chief among them, and I will join him in this just cause.” As a murmur of assent spread around the circle, he raised his hand, silencing it. ‘Tomorrow,” he said. ‘Tonight we smoke and listen to each other, for Nahakoah has come home.”
The mood mellowed as the pipe went around the circle, and the usual storytelling continued until the discussion turned to a man’s medicine. At that, Ketanah turned to Clay again. “And you, Nahakoah, how did you receive your power?”
It would be impolite to refuse, no matter how little Clay wanted to speak of himself. He stood up, aware that every eye in the lodge was on him. “My father was Sansoneah, my mother Ekatonah, daughter to a war chief,” he began.
Ketanah nodded. “I remember both of them. But go on, Nahakoah, that all may know from where your power comes.”
“I was brought to the Nokonis when I was a small child, and as Ekatonah and Sansoneah had lost their only son, I was bought from my captor and adopted by them. This I know because my mother told me when she took me to be named.”
“You were fortunate, for Sansoneah was a wise and brave man, and Ekatonah was a good woman,” the old chief murmured. “But go on—we’d hear of your medicine.”
Clay cleared his throat. “Well, when she decided it was time, my mother and I went to Toweaha, who practiced coyote medicine, and when I was in his tipi, I sat beside his fire. Without speaking, he watched me for a long time, until the fire went out, and then he blew on the ashes. ‘Go,’ he told me. ‘The ashes have blown only toward the tipi door, and my medicine is not for you.’”
“That was too bad,” Two Owls said. “He should have given freely of his power.”
“When he heard what Toweaha had said, my father took his best horse, trying to change his mind, but the old man refused it. My mother went back with two horses, then three, then four, and every time it was the same. ‘My medicine is not for your son,’ he said. Finally, my mother threatened to take me to the medicine man of the Penetakas, so Toweaha promised to pray over it.”
“It would have been a loss of face for him,” Ketanah agreed. “Your mother was clever.”
“My father thought it was because I was not born Comanche, and Toweaha did not want me to have any power. But this was the same pukahut who had given me my name.” “Did she take you to the Penetakas?” someone asked.
“No. The next morning, the old man came to our tipi, saying that he had heard a wolf howl in the night, that it was calling to me, wanting to give me its power. But I had to go out and sl
eep under the stars alone until the wolf came to me.”
“Wolf medicine is very strong,” Two Owls observed, suitably impressed. “Very strong. You went, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I was not to take any food or weapon with me, nor was I to make a fire. The old man gave me only three peyote buttons,” Clay recalled. “I was to fast, except for eating one button each night at sunset.”
“Did you see the wolf?”
“It came on the third night. I heard it howl, and I sat up, too frightened to move. It came into the clearing and stared at me, making no sound, but when I spoke to it, the wolf seemed more afraid of me than I was of him. For a long time we faced each other, then it just turned and ran away. As soon as it was gone, I picked up my blanket and returned to my father, telling him what had happened.”
“Ummm.”
“The next morning, the medicine man said I had the power over all things that were afraid of wolves,” Clay recalled. “My mother was so pleased that she held a gift dance, and my father gave away fifty horses.” Clay looked around his audience, then exhaled. “So I have wolf medicine.”
There was an appreciative silence. Finally, Ketanah spoke. “It was good that Sansoneah and Ekatonah kept going back to that old man, for you have been greatly honored. While the coyote is treacherous, the wolf has the greater strength.”
One of the younger men, who’d been quiet most of the evening, looked at Clay. “If you have wolf medicine, how is it that you could not heal your woman?”
It was the chief who answered him. “Because,” he declared sternly, “wolf medicine is for the destruction of a man’s enemies and must be used wisely.” He reached to touch Clay’s shoulder. “And can any doubt Nahakoah has used his medicine well?”
Coming from Ketanah, scourge of all whites, that was high praise. As a murmur of agreement spread, the brash fellow retreated into silence until it was his turn to tell his own story. By the time all had finished, the old chief’s head was down, his eyes closed in sleep. Rather than wake him, they left quietly, stealing out as one of his wives held the tipi flap back for them.