“Adelantar,” bawled Two Hats, “you no account pelado Injuns!”
He could get by with such irreverence. Doors opened and the riders stalked out of their shacks. They formed a ragged line, like indifferent, don’t-give-a-damn troops. They all wore their hair shoulder length, and their attire mostly consisted of dirty Levi’s pants and dirtier shirts, denim or flannel. Two or three wore boots, the others moccasins, and every man had a rawhide thong about his neck, evidence of an unseen Bowie. Each of them carried a Colt, either in a scuffed holster or muzzle down under his waistband. The man to the far left, at the very end of the line, was the most unusual. He was tall for an Indian and wore two tied-down Colts. It was with him that Charlie Two Hats began his introduction.
“Two-gun man,” said Charlie, “is Buscadero. Next, that Sashavado, then Orejana, Maguey, an’ Latigo. There Tejano; he git run outta Texas. Next, there Frijole, then Fiador. He tie damnedest hitch knots you ever see. Then ol’ Crowspeak. He talk funny. Say somethin’, Crow.”
In a guttural, raspy voice, Crowspeak muttered something uncomplimentary and vulgar. The rest of them laughed, and Two Hats continued.
“There Man Who Ride Wild Horse an’ we jus’ call him ’Hoss.’ Next hombre kill a Mex an’ take his jingle bob spurs. He Jingle Bob. Jus’ ‘Bob’ to his friends, when he got any. Las’ hombre Kiaktiuz. Nobody say that; we jus’ say ‘Cactus.’”
Everybody seemed at a loss for words. Two Hats looked at Ten.
“Got anything say?”
“We ride tomorrow at first light,” said Ten.
Without a word or backward look, they broke ranks and went their ways. Charlie Two Hats followed, and Marty grinned.
“Salty bunch,” said Marty, “and I’d have to agree with Wes—they ain’t partial to us. If your name wasn’t Chisholm, I’d not be surprised if they scalped the lot of us somewhere between here and Texas.”
“I get the same feeling,” said Ten, “but we need them. I look for some of them to question my right to the Chisholm name before we’re done. Don’t provoke them, but don’t let them crowd you too far. Somehow, somewhere, I’ll be put to the test, and I’ll have to convince them there’s more Chisholm to me than just the name.”
They rode out, heading due south, passing to the west of Fort Cobb. Ten estimated they were 125 miles north of the Red River and that they should cross it on the third day. But there was a feeling of unease among them that was almost tangible. While they rode together and took their meals together, it was as though they were two separate outfits. The Cherokee riders kept to themselves, and it wasn’t until the morning of the third day that trouble erupted. Breakfast was over and the wranglers were bringing in the horse remuda. The Cherokee riders seemed more raucous than usual, and slow to mount. Ten swung out of his saddle and headed for the group just as Sashavado was tilting the bottle to drink. Ten drew and fired, and the bottle exploded in the Indian’s face.
“You know the rules,” said Ten grimly. “No whiskey. Who brought the bottle?”
Sashavado wiped his eyes on the grimy sleeve of his shirt before he spoke.
“Sashavado bring,” he said, flashing a malevolent grin. “Who say no? You, mebbe, hijo?”
He came shambling toward Ten, fisting his big hands, his intentions obvious. His shirt was taut over his huge torso and brawny arms. His legs were like the trunks of oaks. He outweighed Ten, and none of it appeared anything less than solid muscle. Ten’s outfit stood behind him, while the Cherokee riders had gathered behind Sashavado. Some of them grinned in anticipation. In contrast, Ten’s few riders were grim, Priscilla near panic.
Sashavado clearly wanted to get his big hands on Ten, and Ten presented a tempting target. But just short of Sashavado grabbing him in a bear hug, Ten buried the toe of his right boot in the big Indian’s groin. Not even Sashavado could withstand so brutal an attack. With a grunt of pure misery he folded in the middle, and when his chin came down, it met Ten’s knee on the way up. Sashavado’s feet left the ground and he came down on his broad back in a cloud of dust. He lay there heaving like a ruptured bellows, trying to recover his wind.
“Stomp the big bastard!” bawled a voice that sounded like Marty’s.
It was what Sashavado expected, for it was what he’d have done. But he was hurt, and he had accomplished nothing. He grasped the rawhide thong about his neck and drew into his right hand the big Bowie, with its keen nine-inch blade. Ten had the throwing knife in his boot, but it was of no use, unless he killed Sashavado. Then there was a shout from one of the Cherokees. Charlie Two Hats! The old Indian had drawn his own Bowie, and the big blade glinted in the morning sun as he flung it to Ten haft first. Ten caught the haft in his right hand and turned to face Sashavado. The big Cherokee was on his feet, advancing, the lust to kill in his eyes.
“Dear God,” cried Priscilla, “let me have a gun!”
“No,” said Marty. “This is Ten’s fight. It’s the only way.”
Sashavado’s first thrust nicked Ten’s shirtsleeve. Ten passed the Bowie to his left hand and slammed the flat of the blade against Sashavado’s head, just over his right eye. Sashavado stumbled, his eyes glazed. Wildly, Sashavado swung his own Bowie, and again Ten used the flat of his blade. It caught Sashavado in the bend of his right wrist. With a howl of pain he loosed his grip on the Bowie and it fell to the ground. He looked at the fallen weapon, and finally at Ten.
“Sashavado,” said Ten grimly, “you have two choices. You can take orders from me and go on to Texas, or I’ll cut your ornery gizzard out. Now what’s it going to be?”
“Sashavado go to Texas,” he said, managing a weak grin.
His comrades broke into a fit of laughter, and the crisis was over. Ten wiped the blade of the Bowie on the leg of his Levi’s and handed it haft first to Charlie Two Hats. Charlie grinned.
“I personal stomp hell out of next pelado that call you half Injun,” he said. Even Priscilla, pale and shaken, laughed at that.
Sashavado didn’t ride well the rest of that day, kind of leaning back in his saddle. Ten heard the rest of the riders bullyragging him about it. But there was no more trouble from the Cherokee riders, and most of them became more sociable around the cook fires.
They crossed the Red River into Texas before making camp for the night. Ten and Priscilla took their bedrolls far enough from the others to afford themselves some privacy. Now that the danger was past, Priscilla was full of questions.
“They’re your father’s riders. Why did they put you through that—that awful fight?”
“You just answered that,” said Ten. “They were my father’s riders, but they weren’t mine. Now they are. Who my relations are don’t mean a damn thing here on the frontier. It’s what I can do that counts. I had to prove myself.”
“Would you have killed him—Sashavado—if he hadn’t backed down?”
“Yes,” said Ten. “I’d have had no choice. They all knew it, and they knew why. They resent me not being a full-blood, but I believe I’ve done a little toward changin’ their minds. You heard what Charlie said.”
“Tenatse Chisholm, I thought I knew you so well. Now I’m not sure I know myself. At first I was just scared to death. Then I—I wanted you to kill him! God help me, I’d have killed him myself if I could have gotten my hands on a gun! I was wild. Now I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Nothin’ to be ashamed of,” said Ten. “You’re learnin’ the difference between society—what folks call ‘civilization’—and reality.”
“Where a man proves himself by killing another man.”
“The most acceptable proof since the dawn of time,” said Ten.
“But you didn’t kill him,” said Priscilla, “although you could have, and I’m proud of you for that. But won’t he hate you and try to get even?”
“No,” said Ten. “Among the Indians it’s called ‘counting coup,’ and in a way, it counts for more bravery and honor than killing. It’s one of the more sensible codes. I am not Sashavado’s enemy, no
r is he mine. While I am Jesse Chisholm’s hijo, I was untried. Among the tribes, a man must prove himself before he is accepted as a leader of other men.”
“These Indians seemed so peaceful,” said Priscilla, “until we took them away from the trading post. I feel like I’m seeing them for the first time.”
Ten laughed. “You are, and even now not in their true light. Fact is, they like to ride off to north Texas occasionally and fight the Comanches and Kiowa, purely for the hell of it.”
“Everybody at Fort Smith made such a fuss over me,” said Priscilla, “but these Indian men ignore me. Like I was a—a corral fence post.”
“Don’t let it bother you,” said Ten. “It’s their way. Indian men live for battle, the hunt, a good horse race, and gambling. Women come in a poor fifth, valued for their ability to do the heavy work.”
“I’ll count my blessings,” said Priscilla. “I’m glad you’re not a full-blood.”
21
Ten’s outfit pushed on into Texas, making camp just north of old Fort Worth. A town had sprung up around the old fort, and although the village had been chosen county seat before the war, there was still no courthouse. Union soldiers occupied the fort, and the stars and stripes flew above its battlements. Ten left the rest of the outfit half a mile away, rode to the sentry at the gate and stated his business. The officer in charge, Captain Fanning, eyed him skeptically. He listened while Ten talked.
“For what it’s worth,” said Fanning, “you have my permission to hunt all the cows you want. I must warn you, however, that you do so at your own risk. The Comanches have been raising billy hell along the Trinity and the Brazos, and we don’t have the manpower to protect you. We’re spread too thin as it is.”
“We don’t expect protection,” said Ten. “We’re nineteen strong, and we’re armed. The Comanches come lookin’ for a fight, they’ll find one.”
“Charles Goodnight’s cow outfit is working along the Brazos, building a herd,” said Fanning.
“Buying or gathering?”
“Gathering,” said Fanning.
Ten said nothing. Once word got out that he was buying, anybody with the gumption of a horned toad would know he was carrying gold. He rode back to the outfit. He got Marty, Wes, Chris, Lou, and Priscilla together for a talk.
“Startin’ in the morning,” said Ten, “we’ll leave Two Hats and the Injun riders to look after our horses and supplies. The six of us will split up into teams of two and begin riding to every ranch in these parts. We have to spread the word we’re buying steers, two-year-olds and up. For now, we just want a commitment. We’ll take delivery of the longhorns later. We may have to travel as far south as San Antone, as many cows as we’re lookin’ for, and what we buy between here and there, we’ll claim them on the way back.”
Ten and Priscilla rode to Weatherford, and then to Mineral Wells. Wes and Lou rode to the town of Dallas and lesser villages east of there. Marty and Chris rode south, to Crockett and Nacogdoches. Their first day’s ride netted them commitments of a little over fifteen hundred head, and a third of that number was cows.
“We got two things workin’ against us,” said Marty. “Texans are broke and can’t afford a drive to market, and the damn Comanches are makin’ things hot in the brakes. So why risk your hair gatherin’ a herd you can’t drive to market anyhow?”
“We may have to move farther south,” said Ten, “maybe as far as Austin or San Antone. We need to find enough stock within a day’s ride so we can have just one camp. I don’t want us scattered all over Texas.”
“Then we might as well go as far south as we need to,” said Marty, “and not waste any time. Farther south we go, the longer the trail to Abilene. The sooner we get the steers, the sooner we can get ’em headed north.”
They made camp just south of Bandera, several hours’ ride north of San Antone. Ten called on some ten-cow outfits without finding longhorns for sale in anything even close to the numbers they needed. One tobacco-chewing old rancher sold them a hundred long-horn steers at four dollars a head. His eyes lighted at the sight of the gold coin, and in a moment of gratitude he passed along some invaluable information.
“They’s an Injun camp a few miles south of San Antone,” he said. “Lipan Apache. Somewheres on th’ Medina River. They’re peaceful folks, an’ they purely hate th’ Comanches. Lipans has always rounded up them wild longhorns, even back in th’ forties. Back ’fore th’ war, somebody was always buyin’ a couple hunnert head an’ drivin’ ’em to Louisiana. Now, can’t nobody afford to buy, an’ couldn’t afford a drive if’n he had th’ cows. I reckon them Lipans ought t’ have stock t’ sell.”
Ten made plans to ride to the Lipan camp the next day. While he had planned to take Priscilla with him, he saw no need for anyone else, unless or until they bought a herd from the Lipans. But Priscilla had other plans. They had already spread their blankets for the night when she made her request.
“Ten, won’t we be going through San Antonio, or at least near it?”
“I reckon. Why?”
“I want Marty and Chris, Wes and Lou to go with us.”
“Why?”
“There’ll be a preacher in San Antonio, don’t you think?”
“So that’s how it is,” he said. “Which one of them came up with this?”
“That’s how it is,” she said, “and none of them came up with it. It’s my own idea. Why do they have to wait until the end of this trail drive?”
“Because they likely won’t be worth a damn on the drive,” said Ten. “I want them in their saddles, not in their blankets.”
“You’re not being fair to them,” she said. “We certainly aren’t spending any extra time in our blankets. What’s wrong with me? Am I too sweaty and dirty for you?”
He’d never heard the like of it. First he was irritated, then angry, and finally he laughed. He kicked off his blankets and rolled over onto hers.
“All right, Miss Matchmaker,” he said, “we’ll take them to San Antone, and get Marty and Wes hog-tied forever. My God, a woman’s never satisfied, as long as there’s a free man anywhere in the world.”
“You’re crushing my chest with your elbow,” she said. “If you have other plans for my sweaty, dirty carcass, rearrange yourself a little.”
“If your carcass ain’t sweaty and dirty, it will be,” he said.
He rolled over, taking her blanket with him, and she followed.
They reached San Antonio just as the town was beginning its day. They found an old jeweler who had some wedding bands on display. They were far from gold, times being what they were, but the gold could come later. The best they could do, preacherwise, was an old priest in what was once a Spanish mission. The ceremony was brief, followed by tears from all the girls, led by Priscilla.
“Now,” said Ten, “there must be someplace in this town with rooms for rent. Walls, a roof, and a bed. I reckon every man and woman’s entitled to a bed on their marryin’ day, and you’d better make the best of it. The next one may be somewhere beyond Abilene. Priscilla and me can call on the Lipans and see if they have longhorns for sale. We’ll look for the four of you sometime tomorrow.”
Chris and Lou smothered him with grateful kisses, while Priscilla, Wes, and Marty laughed at his embarrassment. When Ten and Priscilla rode out, she trotted her horse alongside his.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” he said, as sternly as he could.
“I am,” she said. “Aren’t you?”
“I reckon,” he said.
Her laugh was infectious. He gave in and joined her.
The Lipan Apache village was as permanent as any Ten had ever seen. They lived in adobe mud-and-stick huts strung out along the Medina River. Ten judged there must be a hundred or more huts. There was a large horse corral, five rails high, cottonwood poles lashed with rawhide to upright cedar posts. But there wasn’t a longhorn anywhere in sight. Their arrival drew a curious assortment of men, women, children, and dogs. Most of the men were bare from the
waist up, wearing only buckskin breeches and beaded moccasins. The women wore drab, dark ankle-length dresses. The children were dressed much like the adults, except for the very young. They wore nothing. The spokesman for the tribe, likely the chief, stepped forward. Ten gave the peace sign, and it was returned. The first word the chief spoke, probably his name, Ten couldn’t understand. The Lipan tried again.
“Flacco,” he said. “Me hijo. Flacco hijo.”
Ten nodded his understanding. He’d heard Jesse Chisholm speak of the Lipan chief. Since the Texas Rangers had been organized in 1835, there had been a continuing fight with the Comanches. The Lipan Apaches, forever the enemy of the Comanches, had served the Rangers well as scouts. One such Lipan, Flacco, had been commissioned a captain in the Rangers by Governor Sam Houston. When Flacco had been treacherously murdered by a Mexican, Ranger captain Jack Hayes had personally tracked down Flacco’s killer. This Lipan, as he wanted Ten to understand, was Flacco’s son.
Ten searched his memory. More than once Jesse Chisholm had traveled to Texas at the request of the Federal government, seeking to execute some workable peace treaty with the troublesome Comanche. Many chiefs had been present at these futile meetings. Had this Lipan Apache been one of them? Ten mentioned the names of other chiefs, the names of meeting grounds that he remembered, and finally the name of Jesse Chisholm.
“Chi-zoom?” said the Lipan. “Chi-zoom?” Again he made the peace sign.
The light of recognition came into his dark eyes. Chisholm had been the peace mediator for the government, and the Lipan knew who Chisholm was.
“Chisholm hijo,” said Ten, pointing to himself. “Chisholm hijo.”
The Lipan grinned and put out his hand. Ten took it. While neither knew the other’s name, that didn’t matter. Ten felt a bit guilty. The more he vowed not to live in Jesse Chisholm’s shadow, the more dependent he became on the old man’s reputation. He knelt, and with a stick, began to draw what he hoped could be recognized as a Texas longhorn.
The Chisholm Trail Page 23