Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04

by Quanah Parker

  The dog had followed her, dancing along the shoreline as if she were playing some sort of game with it. Once, it ducked into the water, then bounced back out. Finally, it barked, short, sharp yaps, almost angry, as if to demand that she return to shore.

  She held her breath, hoping the dog would not call attention to her. It barked again, this time trailing off in a short yelp. She looked again, and the dog was dragging itself with its forepaws, its hindquarters hugging the ground. It whimpered once, and then went still. She had heard the sharp thud of the arrow this time as it pierced the dog’s slender body. Squinting in the moonlight, she could see the shaft jabbing at the sky. And the angle made her turn her head. She saw more shadows, maybe as many as a hundred, sprinting toward the river from the far side.

  She started to shout then, knowing that any further delay was pointless. Pulling toward the shore, she saw the first splashes as arrows landed all around her. She could hear the hum of bowstrings, like great unseen bugs among the willows, and more arrows rained into the river, one grazing an outstretched arm.

  The tipis seemed to echo her feeble cries, and she reached water shallow enough to stand. Once again, she shouted, and this time, one of the entrance flaps moved. She saw a face appear and shouted, “Osage, Osage, Osage!”

  The face disappeared, then reappeared, and she recognized Blue Bear, an old man who had been friendly with her father. Blue Bear’s voice joined hers in shouting the alarm. The Osage warriors, knowing that further stealth was pointless, began to yip and shriek, shadows exploding out of the grass all around the camp and darting toward the tipis.

  Comanche were spilling out into the night now, as the sky began to turn gray, as if the sun were in a hurry to see what all the rumpus was about. Stumbling out of the river, her feet slippery on the muddy bank and short grass, she tried to run toward her tipi.

  Sensing something to her right, she turned as a shadow hurtled toward her. Still shouting to raise the alarm, she turned, dodging the leaping Osage, but a heavy forearm slammed into her knees and took her legs out from under her. She had a knife in a sheath on her hip, and grabbed for it, feeling a thick leg fall across her own. Without looking, she jabbed once, then again with the knife, and felt the softness of flesh end abruptly as her knife struck bone. The Osage grunted, then a fist crashed into her stomach as she flailed with the blade again and again.

  Getting to her knees, she threw herself on top of him, and saw then that he was young, not even twenty. But there was no time and this was no place for pity, and she brought the knife down sharply, catching him in the chest just below the heart. She put all her weight into the blow, and felt the knife slide in between ribs. The Osage mumbled something, his voice surprised and almost gentle, then a burble escaped from his chest and she felt blood welling out around the hilt, smearing her fingers as she pulled the knife free.

  Getting to her feet, she looked back toward the river. The rest of the Osage were scrambling onto the bank now, and she knew that there were too many. She started toward her tipi again, surrounded by figures darting in every direction. But all she cared about at that moment was her family.

  Some of the tipis were already knocked on their sides, the heavy buffalo skins pulling the poles to the ground and flattening them like cast-off toys. Her own lodge still stood, and as she raced toward it, she saw three Osage warriors slicing at its side, and she screamed. One turned and smiled as he charged toward her with a lance braced on his hip. She saw the point gleaming in the moonlight, then felt the dull blow as it glanced off her hip. The warrior kicked at her and she went down. He stood over her, the lance raised high, one foot pinning her to the ground. For a split second, she saw the lance poised high overhead, then looked away, past him, toward her tipi, as its side was torn away. She heard the whimper of a child, not sure whether it was her own.

  The lance stabbed through and into the ground beneath her, and she closed her hands around it gingerly, almost tenderly. The warrior grunted as he placed a foot on her stomach next to the lance and started to tug it free. The last thing she saw was his gritted teeth, shiny in the moonlight, as he started to pull.

  Chapter 4

  THE RAID HAD gone well. Peta Nocona rode at the head of the returning raiding party, his face impassive. The Comanche had taken nearly three hundred Mexican horses, and they hadn’t had to go that far over the border to get them. In the past, they had gone as far south as Durango, through rough country where food was scarce and water scarcer still. It had tested their determination and their endurance, and the pickings had been slim. Even the few horses they had managed to capture then had found the return trip too strenuous and almost half of them had been lost. But that had been a hard summer, when the water holes had shrunk, leaving thick layers of salt crystal in rings to mark the slow dwindling. More often than not, what water had been left was unfit to drink.

  But that was the past. Now, three hundred head of prime Mexican stock to the good, there was every reason for Nocona to smile, but it seemed too taxing for him. His face sat like a stone carving on his shoulders, and even Black Snake was reluctant to ask him what was wrong. But that was what friends were for, and the warrior eased his pony close to Nocona’s mount. He thought it best to start with idle chatter.

  “We have done well for ourselves, old friend,” he said.

  Nocona grunted. “So it seems.”

  “You get first pick. Is there one that catches your eye?”

  Nocona shook his head. “No. I think White Heron is right. I think I have enough horses. I don’t need any more.”

  “But it is your right to choose before anyone else. It is the way it has always been. You know that better than anyone. It was you who taught me everything I know about horses. How to geld them, how to choose a pony that would run all day and all night without breaking down, how to choose a good mare for breeding. You love horses as much for what they are as for the honor their ownership brings you. How can you say you don’t want any more?”

  Nocona shook his head. “You’re right. In the old days I knew a good deal about horses. I thought I knew everything.”

  “There are some who say you do.”

  “They are wrong. Besides, as you said yourself, that was the old days. That was the old way.

  I think maybe the old way will not be our way for too much longer.”

  “Why? Why should anything change? Why should not things go on as they always have? We can defeat anyone who comes against us. We go where we please, to follow the buffalo or to trade horses. We have everything we need. The comancheros come to us with anything we can’t make for ourselves. It is a good way. I don’t see why we should change.”

  “We should change because we will be forced to change. I think maybe it would be best if we decided for ourselves when and how.”

  “Maybe you are tired. I think you will feel differently once we get home, and White Heron makes you new moccasins and a new shirt. Gray Fawn says she has been working on something special for you. I think maybe it will be ready by the time we get back to the village.”

  “I have enough shirts, too,” Nocona grunted.

  “Is there anything you don’t have enough of?”

  “Time,” Nocona said. “There is never enough time. The days slip by so quickly, like a sidewinder on the desert. They make no noise as they move. They are in front of you and then they are behind you before you even knew they were there at all.”

  “You talk like an old man. My grandfather says things like that all the time, but I expect it of him. It is what the old ones do, because it is all they can do. But you are young yet. Your best days are ahead of you. That should be reason enough to smile, but you pull a long face today. You pulled a long face yesterday, as if you were carrying a heavy stone on your back.”

  “I am. I am practicing. That is what being chief is like. A heavy stone, many heavy stones. Sometimes I think there is one for each of the people and the chief has to carry them all. I want to be ready.”

 
“You always wanted to be chief. Now it sounds like you have changed your mind.”

  Nocona nodded. “Yes, I did. But that was before I knew just how hard it was … and how little anyone else understood. I knew nothing then. And now that I am soon to be a chief, I know things that no one else knows, things I can’t teach them, and things they can’t understand if I talk about them. Even you, my oldest friend. You don’t understand. You can’t understand. I look at you and want to tell you what it is like. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I think, ‘Maybe this is something I can tell Black Snake.’ But I know right away that it would be no use. I don’t blame you for that, but it makes me very lonely. Any burden is less heavy when you can share it with someone. The only one who understands even a little is White Heron, and she doesn’t understand much.”

  “So, what are you saying? Are you saying that you don’t want to be a chief any longer?”

  Once again, Nocona shook his head. “No, I am not saying that. I would not wish any man to carry the burden I will carry. I don’t mean to sing my own praises, as if I were someone special. I’m not, and that is the one thing that being chief has made me see me more clearly than any other; but measured against the burden I will carry, no man is special. One ant under a great stone is like any other.”

  Black Snake didn’t really know what to say, but he had the feeling that he had to keep his friend talking. “Have you discussed this with any of the old ones? Red Owl might understand. He was a chief. It was a long time ago, but …”

  “Yes, it was a long time ago. Times were different then. Red Owl understands the old ways better than anyone I know. But he knows nothing of the new ways, the new troubles. He would want to do things as they have always been done, but that is not possible. Not anymore. Knowing how to deal with the new troubles requires new ways of thinking. I am not sure anyone is ready for that. I know I am not.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You have always done well. No matter how difficult the problem, you have managed to deal with it. There is enough to eat, more than enough, even. We have all the horses we need. We don’t have to worry about the things that really matter. You have done well.”

  “Yes, so far. But it has made me tired.”

  “Maybe in the council, we can discuss these things. Maybe there is some way to …”

  “No! If I bring it up in council, it will be an invitation for some young hothead to challenge me. He will not know what he is getting into. It will tear the people into pieces, force them to choose sides. Now, more than ever, we have to think as one man. There are too many who would use that confusion for their own purposes.”

  “Inside?”

  Nocona nodded. “Yes. Inside. And out. But if you work against the people, it makes no difference whether you are inside or out. The result is the same. I can’t let that happen. It will probably happen one day soon anyway, but I don’t want to make it easier for anyone.”

  Nocona lapsed into silence, and it seemed to Black Snake that it was permanent. He had nothing to say that could help, and he realized that, rather than helping Peta Nocona as he had intended, he succeeded only in blackening his friend’s mood still more. He didn’t understand what Nocona was concerned about, but thought maybe that one had to be a chief to see far enough into the future, where troubles moved like shadows at the bottom of a deep well. One needed sharp vision to distinguish the shades of darkness. It was all well and good for him to be cheerful, and to tell Nocona there was nothing to worry about, but he didn’t have to make the decisions Nocona had to make. All he had to do was keep his arrows sharp and his arm strong. The rest would take care of itself.

  Reluctant to let the conversation end on such a bleak note, he said, “At least we will be home tomorrow. We can rest. Maybe things will not seem so bad when you have had time to be with White Heron and Little Calf. A man’s wife and son help him forget about things he can’t control.”

  Nocona laughed. “Maybe you are right, my friend. Maybe what I need is something I already have.”

  Just then they heard a shout, and Nocona stiffened. Black Snake pointed toward a high ridge far ahead, where the silhouette of riders could be seen heading toward them. The riders were moving fast, kicking up a cloud of thick dust from the dry ground.

  “Apache?” Black Snake wondered.

  “No,” Nocona said. “If they were Apache, we would not know they were there until it was time for them to spring their trap.”

  “Maybe it is a trick.”

  “I don’t think so. Those people are in a hurry. And they are heading right for us. They must have seen us, must know who we are. I wonder … “

  Others in the Comanche raiding party had spotted the riders now, and started yipping, jabbering excitedly and stabbing at the oncoming riders with the tips of their bows. Nocona realized he had better do something.

  “Take three men,” he said, “and see who those people are. And be careful!”

  Black Snake dug in his heels and peeled away, shouting to the nearest group of warriors. Three of them waved their bows high overhead as their ponies leaped forward. Black Snake led the small band at a full gallop, the sturdy Indian ponies making good time as they raced downhill into the broad shallow valley between the Comanche raiding party and the advancing newcomers.

  Nocona slowed his own pony to a walk, then turned and shouted for a halt. It was best, he thought, to wait and see what Black Snake learned before heading down into the valley. If trouble were coming, better to face it from high ground.

  He saw the small advance party closing rapidly on the distant strangers. In a matter of minutes, Black Snake had reached them, pulled up and held a hand overhead for the three warriors with him to stay quiet. He saw Black Snake turn then and look back up the hill toward him. He squinted, trying to read his friend’s features, but at that distance they were just a copper blur in the sunlight.

  But there was no mistaking the urgency as Black Snake wheeled his pony then and broke back across the valley floor. He left the three warriors with the newcomers, and charged back the way he’d come, glancing back over his shoulder once or twice, either to make certain his orders were being followed, or as if he feared something unseen on his trail might be gaining on him.

  He was yelling long before his words were intelligible. Nocona knew now that something was wrong and told the raiders to stay put while he headed downhill to meet Black Snake in the middle of the slope.

  “What is it?” Nocona shouted, while he was still two hundred yards away.

  Black Snake shook his head and waved a hand in front of his face as if to chase away words he’d rather not speak.

  Nocona felt a chill then. It froze his spine and seemed to spread into the deepest recesses of his body.

  “Something’s happened. What is it?”

  Again, Black Snake flailed with his hands. He swallowed hard.

  “Tell me,” Nocona said gently.

  “The village … Osage … they … “

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  Black Snake looked at him then, his eyes suddenly welling up. “White Heron,” he said. “Little Calf … “

  Nocona tilted his head back just a little. Then he nodded.

  “Both of them?” he asked.

  Again, Black Snake nodded. “Both of them.”

  Shaking his head slowly, then faster, Nocona said, “All right. Bring the horses. I’m going on ahead.”

  “You can’t. The Osage might be …”

  “I hope so,” Nocona said.

  Chapter 5

  NOCONA FELT THE WIND in his hair like a pair of ragged claws, tugging and scratching at him, as if it meant to tear his scalp from his head. It seemed as if all his fears, everything that had haunted his late nights, had gathered up ahead of him like some deadly flock of predators, and he plunged headlong toward it, knowing that it was too late, and not caring. He had to see for himself if each of those fears had come to roost.

  He
rode without regard to anything, even the gallant pony beneath him. If the horse played out, he would run, and when he could no longer run, he would walk, and then he would crawl on bloody knees, if that’s what it took. But somehow, no matter how, he would reach the village.

  Twice, he passed bands of stragglers, but skirted them rather than stop and learn another few bits and pieces of the horror that awaited him. He knew the fury of the Osage, how terrible their vengeance could be. He had seen the ruins of the friendly Kiowa camp the year before, and knew that what awaited him would be every bit as bloody and as terrible as that slaughter.

  His heart was hammering at his chest in unison with the pony’s hooves, and when his heart would race ahead, he would lash the horse with a rawhide quirt, sometimes even pounding on its chest with a fist to squeeze every last bit of speed from the laboring animal. And sometimes, taking a deep breath to try to still the pounding beneath his ribs, he would hear a drumming in his ears as his blood raced through him looking for some way out, some way to vent the unbearable pressure, the way a raging flood will find the tiniest crack and begin tearing at the walls that tried to hold it in.

  It was near sundown by the time he entered the valley of the Arkansas River. The village was not that far away now, but he raced on, as if the carnage ahead were some kind of giant magnet, pulling him faster and faster the closer he came to its irresistible force. The sun had paled, its waning orange seeking refuge behind a haze that spread from one end of the valley to the other. He glanced up at it, telling himself he could not be sure whether it was natural or the residual smoke from a village laid to ruin. But that was a lie. He knew.

  He was following the river now, the pony keeping to the sandy bank where the grass was thinner and the rocks were more easily seen. The sluggish current was dyed orange by the sunlight, stretching two hundred yards to his right, a sheet of cloth broken here and there by the leap of a trout, its own back a darker orange as it spasmed in a violent arc before landing with a slap like that of clapping hands.