by Doug Thorne
A moment later, however, Oscar Sheppard stiffened. He’d seen the willy-way as well, but now he became aware of a dust cloud far behind it, hanging low to the ground but spreading higher, broader, even as he watched.
At the same moment he noticed something else, as well. The ominous rumbling sound was getting louder, and it was now interspersed with an occasional roar and bellow.
Billy watched as Masterson and Sheppard exchanged an expectant glance. They’d been at Adobe Walls long enough for him to get their measure, but were still very much newcomers to this game. As if to prove it, Masterson cried out when the ground beneath them started to vibrate, and again Billy laughed at him.
‘That’s jus’ the king o’ the prairie approachin’, my friends,’ he murmured. ‘The king we intend to depose.’
Then even Billy, who had seen the sight more times than he could recall, fell into an spellbound silence as, from out of the dust cloud, came a long, lumbering line of huge, heavy-shouldered buffalo, shaggy-coated, hump- and slope-backed, with curved horns and tufted beards; a hundred of them, two hundred, maybe five hundred, flowing across the prairie in a steady mudbrown and cinnamon-coloured tide.
Sheppard murmured, ‘My God….’
Ahead and on the flanks of the herd came the bulls, with their huge, low-hanging heads, beady, fringe-covered eyes and black, curved horns. Tipping the scales at around a ton each, they were feisty now, for the mating season was close and the urge to multiply was strong in them. Some were using their horns to dig into the dirt and fling dust back over their massive backs to dislodge parasites. Others occasionally stopped to roll through the dust and short grass like horses, hoping to achieve much the same aim, and there wasn’t one among them that didn’t stand at least ten feet from tip to tail and six or more feet to the shoulder.
Younger spike bulls shuffled along in among the cows and reddish-brown calves, still minding their manners but already starting to show signs of self-assurance and the willingness to dominate those around them. The cows themselves, weighing in at around a thousand pounds, were somewhat smaller than the bulls, but still around eight feet long and the better part of five feet to the shoulder. Some calves, already a fair size, stuck close to their mothers. Others, now weaned, made their own way, some in groups of about twenty, others in smaller bunches.
As the first few buffalo began to pass the high ground upon which the three men were crouched, Sheppard said worriedly, ‘Hadn’t we better take cover, Billy? Don’t want to spook ’em.’
Billy shook his head. ‘The Good Lord gave the buffalo many things, Oscar, but He didn’t give ’em much in the way of eyesight.’ Warming to the subject, he continued, ‘Why, I’ve snuck in close enough to reach out an’ scratch one o’ them prairie cows before now, an’ they never even knowed I was there. Not that I’d advise such behaviour, o’ course. When they spook, they spook good, an’ a man wouldn’t last long among ’em once they gets to runnin’.’
‘You think they might smell us, though?’ Sheppard pursued with concern.
‘We’re upwind of ’em,’ Masterson pointed out absently, clearly fascinated by the procession.
The horses were starting to shy and sidestep now, and their masters had to push erect and restrain them. ‘They’re headed north,’ Billy muttered, following the buffalos’ line of march. ‘An’ that’s where we’ll find ’em comes noon! They’ll walk ’emselves ragged, then settle on a decent bed-ground, an’ that’s when we’ll have ’em, fellers! Good huntin’ an’ rich pickin’s!’
Masterson’s transparent eyes, with their very large, very dark pupils, were bright with excitement at the prospect. Though he couldn’t speak for Sheppard, this was certainly the reason he had come to Adobe Walls – to make money, a lot of money, and to make it fast! Already his breathing had dropped to a shallow panting.
‘We oughta go after ’em,’ he said, speaking half to himself. ‘First ones to the herd’ll make the money.’
‘They’s plenty enough to go around,’ Billy replied. He ran an experienced eye over the animals. ‘An’ I ’spect it’ll take us a week or more to whittle down a herd o’ that size.’
At last the herd passed them by. The rumble began to fade again, the dust to settle, the ground to cease its vibrations. Still transfixed, Masterson tried to decide how many buffalo he’d seen. Six, seven hundred? More?
At last, reluctantly following Billy’s example, he and Sheppard mounted up and turned their horses north. Masterson felt almost giddy with excitement, for the week ahead promised to bring not only valuable experience but also, if he was lucky, considerable wealth.
It was just like Billy had said – good hunting and rich pickings.
As Adobe Walls fell behind him, Hennessy called Billy Dixon seven kinds of fool for riding south into Comanche country at this of all times. Then again, he wasn’t exactly showing much sense himself, chasing right after him in his present, beat-up condition. Still, he couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. He and Billy might have their differences, but they’d travelled too many trails together for that.
The early morning chill hadn’t taken long to evaporate, and the temperature now stood at a hundred energy-sapping degrees. Around him, the Staked Plains were slow-cooking beneath a merciless sun, and there was no movement other than that of Hennessy and his horse. That wasn’t to say he had these vast high plains to himself, though. The Indians were out there somewhere, he felt sure: the best he could hope for right now was that he and they wouldn’t cross trails.
Fortunately, Billy’s tracks weren’t hard to spot, and he soon had the gelding following them in a long, mile-eating trot. The air was like hot glue, the Llano Estacado itself filled with an almost overwhelming silence that was broken only by the regular, hollow clatter of the gelding’s hoofs.
Around the middle of the morning Hennessy stopped to water the horse in the shade of a few stunted paloverde trees. He poured water into his up-turned hat, allowed the gelding to drink his fill and was just tying the canteen back around his saddle horn when he threw a casual glance north-east and saw them.
Indians.
They were still the better part of a mile away and, near as he could tell, there was a whole bunch of ’em. Worse still, it appeared to Hennessy as if they were headed straight for him.
He reacted instinctively, dragging the horse deeper into cover and hauling his Big Fifty from its scabbard. The Indians, meanwhile, seemed to hover on the far horizon, their shapes distorted by the dancing heatwaves.
Propping the heavy buffalo gun against the nearest tree, Hennessy pulled a sack of greased cartridges from his near-side saddlebag and dropped it at his feet. If all he’d heard was true, the Fifty had a way of spooking the Indians, who had heard stories about its power, range and accuracy and learned to treat it with respect.
Next he grabbed the gelding’s nose and dosed his palm around its big, flared nostrils, for even the slightest sound could alert the Indians to his presence – assuming they hadn’t already spotted him, of course.
In next to no time the Indians had come within a couple-hundred yards of the paloverdes, and were still holding their horses to a steady, determined lope. Any moment now he expected them to fan out and rush him. Hearing the approaching hoof beats and wanting to show himself and make friends, the gelding struggled a little, but Hennessy tightened his grip and in a sharp whisper told the animal to hold still.
The Indians came on, still bunched together. With his free hand, Hennessy reached down to release the thong on the Colt’s hammer.
And then, just when he least expected it, they veered eastward.
He knew a brief, heady moment of relief then, when it became clear that they hadn’t seen him after all, and obviously had business elsewhere. As they cantered past, however, now no more than a hundred yards from where he stood frozen, he got his first good look at their deerskin hip leggings and finely-crafted moccasins, their cotton shirts and beaded belts, from which hung buffalo tails and white feathers, and h
is uneasiness suddenly returned with a vengeance.
He’d been expecting Comanches, or maybe Kiowa, but these were neither. Their height and dress suggested another tribe – Arapaho. And by the way they were pushing their ponies through this punishing heat, they were in a hurry to get where they were going.
It was their hurry, he thought, that had probably kept them from spotting him.
Only when they’d gone did he release his breath and deflate a fraction. But the Indians had left him with a number of questions. What had brought them here, into Comanche and Kiowa territory? The Arapahos were nomads, it was true, and they’d been known to trade with the Comanches in the past. But they were also known for their hostility towards both the Comanches and Kiowas. And now that he thought about it, they’d certainly had the look of a raiding party.
Were they here to make war, then?
He really didn’t know. It could as easily be that they were just passing through. But if so, where were they headed, and what mischief did they have planned for when they got there?
He sleeved his sweat-run face. Whatever they were up to, he felt the men of Adobe Walls should be told about it, just in case it was linked to the Indian trouble he’d run into yesterday.
He thought for a moment about whether he should turn back or go on, made his decision and swung back into the saddle. Checking to make sure the Arapaho were no longer in sight, he broke cover and continued following Billy’s tracks.
FIVE
It was Billy who saw him first, but it was Masterson who tried to shoot him.
Still busy thinking about all the money he stood to make over the next week or so, Masterson went for his gun as soon as they emerged from between two sand hills and spotted him. It was only the harsh bark of Billy’s voice that froze him before the gun could clear leather.
‘No call to burn powder, boy! That’s Hennessy!’
Startled, Masterson reined in fast, took another squint at the distant horseman and saw his mistake.
But as he allowed the weapon to drop back into leather, the Illinois-born youngster curled his lip. He didn’t fully understand it himself, but there was something about Hennessy he just couldn’t warm to. Maybe it was because he sensed that the feeling was mutual. Or maybe he just hated the idea that Hennessy had been so quick to dismiss him as a know-nothing greenhorn.
Grudgingly, he said, ‘Sorry, Billy. I thought he was a Comanche.’
Billy had shortened his own rein by now. ‘Well, next time, you jus’ remember to make damn’ sure of your man before you decide to put him down.’
The reprimand hit him like a slap. ‘I said I was sorry,’ he bristled.
A few moments later, Hennessy brought his mount to a sliding halt before them, nodded a terse greeting and then told Billy what he’d seen. Billy listened grimly, knowing better than to ask if Hennessy was sure about it. Hennessy wouldn’t make a mistake about something like that, any more’n he would.
‘How many were there?’ he asked when Hennessy fell silent.
‘About two dozen’d be my guess. Carrying rifles too, most of ’em.’
Billy smacked one palm down on his saddle horn. ‘They would have to show up now, wouldn’t they?’ he growled. ‘Just when we’ve hit paydirt!’
‘I’d worry more about keeping my hair, was I you,’ Hennessy advised mildly. ‘Best we get on back to Adobe Walls and spread the word.’
‘Where’s the hurry?’ asked Masterson, as Hennessy made to turn his horse around. ‘What’s to say them red bastards ain’t just passin’ through, headed for Mexico?’
Hennessy gave him another of those looks he was learning to hate, the kind of look that said he wasn’t just dumb, he was downright stupid. ‘Because this is the time of the Sun Dance, boy,’ Hennessy explained.
Oscar Sheppard frowned. ‘An’ you think the Arapaho plan to take part?’ he hazarded, breaking his usual shy silence.
‘I think they might be hopin’ to forge some kind of alliance with the Comanches and the Kiowas while they’re all gathered together for the ceremony,’ Hennessy replied. ‘Join forces so’s they can wipe you folks off the map.’
Billy chewed on that for a spell. ‘That’d sure make sense,’ he allowed after a moment. Then: ‘You’re right, Cal. We better warn the others. Then we’ll fort up for a couple days, see what happens next.’
‘What about the herd?’ demanded Masterson. ‘We jus’ gonna let it go?’
‘Them buffalo won’t stray far,’ predicted Billy. ‘Any case, we got first claim.’
Masterson snorted at that. He knew that most hide runners of any experience worked to a simple, unwritten agreement: that you never muscled in on another hunter’s stand, especially if he’d staked his claim first. You respected that claim just as you expected him to respect yours.
But if Masterson knew anything about men, it was that they were always ready to earn an extra dollar, and the rules be damned. Hell, if the position was reversed and the reward great enough, he wasn’t even sure he could trust himself to do the right thing.
But there was no time to argue the point now. The others, apparently not sharing his misgivings, had already pointed their horses for home, and he had to move fast to catch up with them.
‘Tell us, Quanah,’ said Lone Wolf. ‘When do you intend to attack the white man’s fort?’
Satanta nodded, eager for the answer. ‘You know that we of the Kiowa will follow you!’
Quanah hesitated before replying. Isatai had given them a sign. More importantly, he had given them proof of his claims. And yet, as caught up in the lust for war as he had been the night before, he was still reluctant to commit his people to battle.
Sensing as much for himself, Satanta noted perceptively, ‘You think of the weak. Of those who will mourn their dead. And this does you credit, Quanah. But you must understand just how much worse things will become for the Nermernuh, if you do not act now!
‘Remember what happened to my own people,’ he continued, his voice suddenly thickening. ‘They forced us to dwell upon a reservation we had no desire to inhabit and made us grow “Indian corn” to survive! But was that any way for our people to live, Quanah? Of course not! We are not farmers, we are warriors! We must fight, for if we do not, we are nothing!’
Quanah was just about to reply, to suggest perhaps a few exploratory skirmishes here and there to gauge the strength of the enemy and their willingness to fight, when he became aware of an excited babble outside. Rising gracefully, he pushed out of the tipi and into the hard daylight, with Lone Wolf and Satanta at his heels.
His warriors were grabbing for their weapons, anxious to arm themselves quickly. Spotting him, one hurried over and pointed to the jagged canyon rim where Eagle Hand stood watch. ‘Arapaho are coming. Quanah!’ he reported. ‘Perhaps five hands of them – and they wear the colours of war!’
Dismissing the man with a nod, Quanah broke away from his companions and followed a barely discernible path up towards the canyon-rim in a series of fluid, loping strides. He knew the Arapaho as men of honour, but the news of their warpaint concerned him. Arapaho and Comanche had fought before, many times. But oftener still they had traded together and come to share an unspoken bond of trust and respect.
He could think of no reason why they might wish to make war at this time. They were perhaps the most religious of all the tribes, and of all the ceremonies they observed, none was more important to them than the Sun Dance. It did not seem likely to him that they would soil such a sacred time with bloodshed.
Was it possible, then, that they had come because they wished to take part in the rites and rituals being held here? But if so, why were they painted for war?
He reached the spot from which Eagle Hand had sounded the alarm. Eagle Hand watched him climb, then indicated the position of the newcomers with one long finger when he finally came to a halt. At the approximate centre of the exposed flats below, a group of riders, barely visible in the gauzy loud of dust raised by their horses’ hoofs,
were heading directly towards the canyon entrance. There were, as he had been told, in excess of twenty warriors.
Quanah felt Eagle Hand’s eyes upon him. Eagle Hand, he thought, who had taken it upon himself to kill two whites the day before and returned to the camp as a hero because of it. Eagle Hand, who had been chosen to help Isatai prove the gods’ promise of invulnerability. Eagle Hand, who might very well become the next leader of the Kwahadis, if he didn’t make the decision – the right decision – soon.
The newcomers were now close enough for him to see them more clearly. At their head rode a tall, slim Arapaho whose face was daubed with red paint. Recognizing him, Quanah quickly picked a path down off the rim and onto the brushy flats that led towards the canyon, intending to intercept them.
Inasmuch as a Comanche could ever give his friendship to someone other than a fellow Comanche, he and this man could be called friends, and that was some comfort to him. Coming down onto the canyon floor, he planted himself in the riders’ path and waited until they drew rein before him. But when they did so, he saw an eagerness in the Arapahos that was coupled with a barely-suppressed anger that made for a dangerous mixture, and all at once he was on his guard again.
‘I welcome you, Wo’teen,’ he said carefully, addressing the leader of the group. The Arapaho were a polite people, and it was as well to observe the formalities with them. ‘My heart is glad to see you here. But when I look at your face, I see no joy. Your eyes flash with hatred.’
Wo’teen slid from his pony’s back and raised his right hand, signifying that he came in peace, despite the paint worn by him and his men. He was in his early thirties, tall and handsome but for an overlarge aquiline nose. He wore red circles on his forehead and cheeks, and the centre parting of his jet-black hair, which was worn in two braids, typical Arapaho style, was also coloured red.
‘It is good to see you again, my brother,’ he replied. ‘But you are right. I come to this place with war in my heart.’