*
As he lay on his bedroll on the north side of Coldwater Creek, his hat was resting down over his eyes. He raised his chin a bit and watched as Mac made his way across the creek and up the low hill on the other side. When Mac settled against a boulder, Wes relaxed and thought about what they were doing. In a couple days they would say the oath and actually be sworn in as Texas Rangers.
He was more impressed than he’d let on by the men they’d seen in Watson at Mr. Billings’ place. Mac had focused on how they’d taken over, but what impressed Wes was the way they sat their horses. Proud, maybe, or maybe determined... he couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but it was something bigger and deeper than them riding in and taking over. It was something more important. Dignified, maybe.
Any group of ruffians could ride into a place and take over, from banditos to Indians to a brace of drunk cowboys with guns and feeling their oats. Hell, Auntie Mame’s sewing circle could ride in and take over when they were in their cups. But with the Rangers it was different. They had taken what they needed, and obviously they had coerced Mr. Billings, but they’d done so respectfully. They had made him feel he was part of their endeavor instead of a victim of necessity.
Maybe that’s what impressed him about them: they were self-righteous but respectful.
It was a lucky thing that Mac had decided to join the Rangers. Wes would have done so anyway, but Mac probably wouldn’t have followed him. Generally speaking, things had to be Mac’s idea. This way the two of them would remain friends and stay together. They’d been through a lot together already, and they’d always watched out for each other.
Now they would be Rangers together. In times of trouble, they wouldn’t have to wonder whether they could count on their partner. That was a comforting feeling, just like knowing Mac was on watch up on the hill. Wes looked up at the night sky a final time. It seemed endless, deeper than deep, and he drifted off into it as he closed his eyes.
Then a stick snapped.
Wes opened his eyes but lay perfectly still.
Beneath the blanket, he reached with his thumb to be sure the hammer was cocked on his Colt. It was.
The sound repeated, and it wasn’t a stick. He frowned. It was a group of sticks and leaves, and again, again. A group of sticks and leaves being pressed into the floor of the prairie by something heavy. The sound repeated again, again. It was regular. A horse walking.
Wes closed his eyes to focus his hearing, and a new sound came to him: leaves and small branches brushing alongside something. Or something brushing alongside leaves and small branches. A horse moving through the brush.
The smooth sound of the brush moving alongside the horse was interrupted by a light, sharper sound, almost a slap, and then the smooth sound continued. A horse with a rider.
The sounds multiplied, expanded. Many horses. Many riders. All moving west to east along the north bank.
White men would be talking. Mexicans would be talking and laughing. Only Indians were at peace with silence. Only they chose to move that quietly.
The sounds faded to the north and east, and Wes moved his left hand carefully, brushing the blanket across his waist to his left side.
The sounds continued to fade. He sat up, carefully lowered the hammer on his Colt, then holstered it.
He stood, thought about whether he should go get Mac, then realized Mac could see him from his vantage point. When he saw what Wes was doing, probably he’d come down and join him.
Wes carried his saddle to where the horses were hobbled. He took the hobbles off Charley, then saddled him and mounted. He glanced back across the creek toward Mac.
His friend was not moving. Probably didn’t want to call attention to himself and give away his location.
He walked Charley away from the camp, then angled northeast at an easy canter. Not quite a half-hour later he cut a trail. When he had followed it for a little over an hour, he realized the direction was remaining consistent. The Indians were headed east-northeast. Fortunately the slight breeze was out of the northeast.
The nearest settlement in that direction was Uaka. Similar to Watson, it was more the central gathering point for ranchers and dry farmers than an actual town. Still, it was a good day’s ride away.
He continued to follow the troop of Indians without seeing them and, he hoped, without them seeing him. They stayed to soft ground mostly, so noise was not an issue, and what breeze there was remained out of the northeast.
Not quite two hours later the land sloped away slightly and he found himself riding alongside a small arroyo. That arroyo and the trail alongside it led down into a broad arroyo, perhaps eighty yards across with twenty to forty foot walls on either side.
Where the smaller arroyo widened out and dropped into the larger one, the trail went over the edge and angled sharply back to the left. It bottomed out some thirty feet below and twenty or thirty yards upstream of where Wes had paused on the rim.
He leaned forward in the saddle and peered into the distance.
And there they were. In the dim light of the moon, he could just make them out. He averted his eyes for a moment, then looked again.
The Indians were just coming up the other side of the arroyo some three hundred yards distant, riding in single file with the leader a ways out in front. He’d heard somewhere the formation was typical of Comanche raiding parties.
As he followed them, he had thought they might be hunters. Now that he had them in sight, he looked back along the line of horses. Each one was carrying a brave. There were no pack animals laden with hides or meat. There were no carts. None of the braves was sharing his horse with dead game. It was definitely a raiding party.
But there was something different about the leader.
Wes frowned. He studied the braves, then looked at the leader again.
If the braves were normal sized, maybe five feet eight to five feet ten or so and around a hundred and forty to a hundred and sixty pounds, the guy out front was only a kid. He was thin, and even taking into account the disparity in distance between him and the other braves, he was a good head shorter than they were.
Wes looked again. He thought maybe the man’s horse was smaller, but the horses were all about the same size at around thirteen hands.
Maybe the actual leader of the party had the kid riding point. But if that were true the kid would be a lot farther out front.
None of it made any sense. The whole thing left Wes with an uneasy feeling. He watched until the party was out of sight, then turned Charley and headed back for camp.
He’d alternated Charley’s pace between a canter and a walk until he’d cut the Comanches’ trail, then had ridden at a canter until he’d come upon them at the arroyo. But he was in no hurry now. If they happened to see him, he didn’t want them to know he’d seen them and was rushing to tell someone.
He moved Charley along at a leisurely pace, walking, as he considered what he’d seen.
*
On the far side of the arroyo, as soon as Four Crows was over a low rise, as the last of his men were still topping out over the edge of the arroyo, he slipped from his horse and ran along the rise. Finally he settled behind a large creosote and peered through the dim light.
He glanced across to where he thought they’d come into the arroyo and saw nothing. The rider must still be following.
He shifted his attention into the bottom of the arroyo, about halfway between where they’d entered and exited.
For a moment he thought he saw a horse, but it was part of a fallen cottonwood. His vision was playing tricks in the dim light. The head of the imaginary horse was formed by a branch that arched up from the toppled trunk and had not yet lost all its leaves. It bobbed irregularly in the slight breeze.
He traced their path slowly from there back to the base of the trail where they had entered the arroyo. There, for a moment, he paused, carefully watching the boulders. Nothing moved. From there he traced the path up along its
angle to the top of the arroyo. The path was barren, with no place to hide a man, much less a man and a horse.
At the top there was only mesquite and acacia and creosote, and— There. The rider that had been following them moved out from behind a creosote bush. He was still on his horse but had turned and was moving away through the intermittent brush. He seemed in no hurry. His horse was walking.
Either he had no fear or he was setting a trap.
Four Crows backed down the rise, then turned and ran back to his horse.
Takes Leaves and Young Elk watched as he came out of the brush and mounted his horse. They moved up alongside him. Takes Leaves said, “Why are we stopping here?”
“You saw the one following?”
Takes Leaves shook his head. “No.”
Young Elk said, “I saw nobody.” He looked at the ground. “I should be more watchful.”
“I saw him. A lone rider,” Twin Deer said as he joined them. He had been riding toward the rear of the group.
Four Crows looked at him. “How long did he follow us?”
Twin Deer shrugged. “I first saw him some time before the moon was at the top of the sky. He stopped when we entered the arroyo.”
Four Crows nodded. “He waited on the far side. He watched from there as we climbed out. You saw no others?”
“No. There were no others.” Twin Deer looked around. “This is a good place to camp.” He gestured toward Young Elk. “I could take my brother and go after him. Silence him.”
Four Crows thought for a moment. “No. I watched as he turned away. He was walking his horse. I think he was only curious. At the worst, he was baiting a trap. He wasn’t riding as if to raise an alarm.”
“Perhaps he suspected you were watching.”
“Perhaps. It is of no consequence. We have other things to deal with right now.”
*
Four hours after he rode away from the arroyo, with dawn only a couple hours away, Wes reined in next to Mac’s horse at their camp and dismounted. He looped Charley’s reins over a low hanging cottonwood limb, then glanced up at the boulder on the low rise across the creek. Mac was still there.
Wes grinned, feeling more than a little like he’d gotten away with something. He walked back to his bedroll, picked up his top blanket, and turned toward the creek.
He followed a javelina trail up the hill and circled around behind the boulder, then quietly came up alongside Mac’s sleeping form. He gently draped the blanket over his friend, then walked back behind the boulder again to where the top of it angled into the ground. There he walked up on top of it and folded himself down, his legs crossed at the ankles.
As was his routine, he drew his Colt and laid it in his lap. He thought there was no possible way he would fall asleep, but it was better to be safe.
But he didn’t fall asleep. His mind was too busy for sleep.
Just over an hour and a half later, Mac had jerked awake.
*
And now, lying on his bedroll on the south side of the Canadian almost a full day later, Wes still didn’t understand what he was supposed to get from having seen the Comanches on the move. He was sure it had something to do with the diminutive leader—he could sense that much—but he still couldn’t quite figure it out.
The guy was skinny, so he was probably young, but so what? Among the tribes, adulthood wasn’t as attached to age as to ability and experience. Maybe he was already an accomplished warrior. Or maybe the elders in his clan thought he had unusual promise. Or maybe his leading a raiding party was all a test.
Wes grinned. He mumbled, “Or maybe his mama just didn’t fed him right. C’mon, Crowley.” But he couldn’t dispel the sense of unease.
Something moved to Wes’ right, but before he had a chance to react, Mac whispered, “Wes?” Then he emerged from the darkness.
Beneath the blanket, Wes lowered the hammer on his Colt. “Yeah?”
“Time to spell me on watch, I guess. You awake?”
Wes grinned at the question. “Yeah, I’m awake.” He sat up, then stood and holstered his Colt. He stretched and yawned. “You want to, just go ahead and stretch out here.”
Mac nodded. “Good idea. Thanks.” He offered Wes the blanket he was carrying. “You want this? Little breezy out there.”
“Nah, but thanks. I’m runnin’ a little warm anyway. See you in a few hours.” And he walked out through the brush. The moon was a couple of slivers less than half-full, but it was plenty to see Mac’s tracks in the soft soil.
When he found where Mac had stood his watch—the base of a broad desert willow—he settled in front of a nearby fallen trunk. He leaned back and thought more about the Comanche leader.
Over the next few hours he considered everything from the sounds the horses had made to the tracks. Nothing had been unusual about the tracks except that they were unshod. But even then, each of them looked like all the others. There were no particularly distinguishing marks.
He considered the speed at which they were moving, casually, as if in no great rush and perhaps with no particular target in mind. And he considered again how they had looked as they made their way up out of the arroyo. Nothing unusual there either except the leader.
He shook his head. Finally he decided he simply didn’t have all the information he needed to come to a conclusion. Usually that meant he needed to compare notes with someone else. When he pooled his information with theirs, an answer would be forthcoming.
That someone wouldn’t be Mac, though. He hadn’t seen the raiding party.
Then it dawned on him. Tomorrow, probably around noon or sooner, they would ride into Amarillo and find the headquarters of the local Ranger company. If anyone else knew anything about that particular Comanche, it would be the Rangers.
With his mind finally settled on the question, at least for now, he feared he might fall asleep so he stood up.
But he was wide awake. He wondered who the young Comanche chieftain was. What was the significance of his leading a raiding party at such a young age? What had propelled him to leadership?
He was certain of only one thing, the same feeling he’d been unable to rid himself of earlier.
Someday he would meet the young Comanche war chief face to face.
* * *
Four Crows had expected to circle around in a big arch through Indian Territory to the northeast, east and southeast after he stopped in his village. But from there, as he ate and related his tale, he and his three friends rode west-southwest on advice of Twin Deer. He was Four Crows’ most trusted advisor, and he said there was a village in that direction where he was certain Four Crows would find more braves committed to ridding Comancheria of the invaders.
They picked up two more men there, then rode southeast to another village where they picked up one more, then east again to a village where they picked up yet another one. From there, they loosely followed the north bank of what the white-eyes called Coldwater Creek for a time, then headed northeast for Red Hawk’s village.
They had picked up a tail along Coldwater Creek too, but he had turned away once they passed through a particularly broad, steep arroyo near the Territory.
Along the north bank of Wolf Creek a few miles northeast of the trading post and fledgling settlement named after Alexander Shattuck, Four Crows and his eight braves rode into a Comanche village. Near the center of the village, Four Crows halted.
A few women were outside, a few children. It was late in the day. Most of the braves were inside, probably resting.
Four Crows yelled, “Tilo ka Tuwikáa Hayarokwetü!”
A few heads poked out through a few flaps.
Four Crows yelled again. “Tilo ka Tuwikáa Hayarokwetü!”
More flaps opened, more heads poked out, and braves began to filter out of the tents. They walked toward the diminutive brave.
Behind them, toward the end of the village, an elder poked his head out through the flap of his tipi, then stepped out and cam
e up the center of the path. He raised both hands, palms up. “What is going on? Why are you yelling, young one?”
Four Crows looked down at him from his horse. Quietly, he said, “I am Four Crows. I come with news of Iron Bear. I was born where he fell. I carry within me his spirit, and I bear the sacred number in my name. I will drive from Comancheria the white eyes and all who are not Comanche.”
The other braves from the village had slowly drawn nearer as Four Crows spoke to the elder.
A brave in his mid-twenties jostled the old man’s left shoulder as he thrust his fist past him. Even as the elder frowned at him, the brave pointed at Four Crows. He laughed, then glanced around at the other braves, then looked at Four Crows again. He jutted out his chin, and said, “Who is this child braggart to come among us? I have ridden with Iron Bear many times, but this one has not. He lies. He is too young.”
Four Crows locked the brave in his gaze, his eyes smoldering.
Slowly, deliberately, his gaze on the brave the whole time, he lifted his left leg straight up over his horse’s neck and slipped off the right side, dropping only a few feet in front of the brave. Still staring at the brave, he said quietly, “I have never seen you before, and I know all who rode with Iron Bear. What is your name?”
The brave glared at him, but under Four Crows’ withering stare he soon averted his gaze and looked around at his friends.
None of them showed any emotion.
He looked at Four Crows again. “I will not answer your questions. You are a child and a liar.” He sneered and leaned closer, then hissed, “You should run along home before your mama misses you.”
Behind Four Crows, his braves were still mounted. Takes Leaves glanced at Young Elk and shook his head. Softly, he said, “Oh oh.”
Twin Deer frowned at him.
But Four Crows smiled broadly. “I truly am sorry, Coward Who Has No Name. I came here to seek counsel with Comanche braves. I should not have bothered you.” He extended his right hand. “Friends?”
The brave’s eyes grew wide with anger. He drew his knife and lunged at Four Crows.
The smaller Indian stepped into the lunge, caught the larger brave under the left arm, and snapped forward at the waist, flinging the brave in a big arc over his hip.
No Name landed flat on his back, momentarily creating a man-shaped geyser of red dust. Some of the others winced at the sound of the breath rushing out of him.
The Rise of a Warrior Page 8