Buffalo Horn nodded.
“Meakes Mercantile is the place.”
“My granddaughter sold you some blankets,” the chief said. “Many of our women sold such things to you.”
“Yes! Those sell like hotcakes!” Paul said, eternally grateful to be talking about something so familiar. “Anyway, my children and I were at the trading post a few miles from here when . . . um . . . some of your . . . well . . .”
Buffalo Horn’s eyes narrowed, but he turned his disapproving gaze instead to the muscular warrior who’d brought the two prisoners into the teepee. “You were there when the trading post was attacked.”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Aren’t you sorry as well, Red Feather?”
The muscular Comanche set his jaw into a firm line and didn’t say a word.
Looking back and forth between the two men, Paul said, “My daughter was shot by an arrow in the raid. My son was hurt as well.”
“Children were hunted?” Buffalo Horn asked in a voice that quickly rose to a snarl. “Are you sure of this?”
“Yes, sir. Arrow came through the window and caught my girl in the leg.”
“What do you say to this, Red Feather?”
“I say he is a white man,” the muscular Comanche replied. “That means he is full of lies.”
“I do not think he is lying. He came all this way to seek vengeance, as any father would do after his children were harmed by a pack of wild animals!”
It was clear by the fire in Red Feather’s eyes that if anyone else had spoken those words to him, a whole lot of blood would have been spilled soon afterward. “We hunted no children!” he said. “We killed no one.”
“So . . . you were one of the men who rode in that raid?” Paul asked in a voice that grew as taut as a bowstring.
“I was.”
Paul’s heart thumped in his chest. His muscles tensed and his hands balled into fists. “Why?” he asked. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because your people must be taught they are not the ones who own this land. They have no right to push us off or try to keep us quiet like docile sheep by throwing a few dollars at us.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paul said. “All I do know is that my little girl and boy are getting sicker every second we sit here flapping our gums.”
“You say she was hit in the leg,” Red Feather said. “I have pulled arrows from worse places than that without coming close to death. Even a child should be able to—”
“Quiet!” Buffalo Horn roared.
Not only did Red Feather stop talking, but every sound within the village seemed to cut itself short at that moment. The chief’s eyes remained on the warrior until Red Feather turned his head in deference to the Comanche elder. As Buffalo Horn shifted his gaze toward Paul, the change within him was like winter shifting into spring. “Your child was shot by one of my people’s arrows?”
“Yes, sir,” Paul replied, feeling as if he too was within the heat of the old man’s fire.
“Your son, also?”
“No. You see, my girl was standing by a window when an arrow came through and my son cut himself while pulling it out.”
“Cut himself?”
“That’s right. Because of the poison on the arrowheads, both of them fell ill. That’s why—”
“Poison?” Buffalo Horn said in a low rumble issuing from deep within his weathered body. Once again, he looked at Red Feather. “What kind of poison did you use? It is bad enough that you sent arrows flying where they could land in the flesh of children and women. . . .”
Red Feather sat up straight and moved as if he wanted to lunge but just didn’t know which way to jump. “We rode to send a message! The only sort of message that the white man will understand. A message that will cost him money. Not the death of any child. Money!”
“Poison?” Buffalo Horn snarled.
“That is a lie spread by the army and scalp hunters. We need no poison to kill.”
No matter how badly Paul might have wanted to wring the necks of the men who’d fired those arrows, he knew better than to insert himself into the confrontation playing out between the two Comanches. He hadn’t known Hank for very long, but he doubted the other man would be foolish enough to make that mistake either.
“You were warned about this,” Buffalo Horn said. “The last thing our people need to do is give any more reasons to hunt us.”
“We never gave the first reason to hunt us,” Red Feather shot back. “And none of our arrows were poisoned. That is just another in the string of lies used to chase us from our lands into—”
Cutting the warrior off with a slicing motion from one hand, Buffalo Horn looked to Paul and asked, “Do you know for certain the arrow was poisoned?”
“Actually,” Paul replied, “that’s why I came here. I wanted to find whoever fired those arrows so I can get a bit of whatever poison was used. The doctor tending to my daughter needs it so he can figure out some sort of antidote.”
“I have never known my people to use poison arrows,” Buffalo Horn said in a voice that seemed incapable of lying. “And if we did, I would not hesitate to help a child in need. I have several of my own and they have children as well. My spirit could not bear the weight of doing harm to any lives such as theirs.”
“I wanna know why that one there shot any arrows into a trading post,” Hank said after his prolonged silence.
Glaring at him as though a mangy rodent had suddenly disgraced the human tongue by forming words, Red Feather said, “I do not have to explain myself to you.”
“Maybe not, but it seems you still need to explain to someone.”
Everyone else in the teepee turned to look at Buffalo Horn.
“It was a message,” Red Feather eventually said. “Our people will not be subjected to the whims of strangers without a price being paid. Since those strangers will not listen to words, they will see what we do.”
“I can understand that. What about the poison arrows?” Hank asked.
“I will say that if I did take the time to mix a batch of death, dip my arrows into it, and send it flying through your windows, I would want you and everyone else to know about it. I tell you for the last time that I did not do this.”
Hank looked at him for a few seconds before giving a single, solid nod. “That’s good enough for me.”
“It is?” Paul asked in disbelief.
“Sure. Take a look at the man. Does he look like he cares whether or not we know the truth? And more important, doesn’t what he said make perfect sense?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, then,” Hank declared while crossing his arms. “There you go.”
Although he clearly wasn’t as satisfied by Red Feather’s explanation, Buffalo Horn shifted his gaze toward Hank. “I know why one of you is here. What about you?”
“Me?” Hank asked. “Oh. I’m with him.”
“Are you?”
“I’m his guide. He wanted to find a Comanche to talk to about the raid on that trading post and I took him to the villages. Also, I was supposed to keep an eye on him in case any trouble sprang up.”
“You hurt several of my hunters,” Buffalo Horn said. “One is lucky to still draw breath after being shot.”
“No offense, but they’re the sort of trouble I meant.”
“I see. Is that all you have to say?”
Hank nodded.
“What about you?” Buffalo Horn asked Paul.
Too flustered to come up with much of anything, Paul simply nodded as well.
“Good. I will have a word with Red Feather. Take them away.”
Two of the Comanches who had brought them to the teepee grabbed Hank and Paul by their collars, dragged them outside, and hauled them to their feet. They were taken back
to the spot where they’d awakened, their ropes were tightened once more, and they were staked back to the ground right where they’d started.
After their Comanche escorts left, Hank whispered, “That went better than I thought it would.”
“You’re crazy—you know that?” Paul hissed.
“Why?”
“Because you . . .” After looking around to see only a few curious children watching them from a safe distance, Paul said in an even softer voice, “You lied to them.”
Matching and also mimicking Paul’s tone, Hank said, “They don’t know about that part.”
“But I do. How did you know I wasn’t going to tell them the truth as soon as those words left your mouth?”
“Because you’re not that sort of fellow,” Hank replied. “I could tell that much after talking to you for five seconds. Besides, being caught in a white lie would put me in less trouble than telling the truth.”
“Which is?”
“Which is . . . something best left unsaid for the time being.”
“You’re an Indian hunter,” Paul whispered.
“Then why do you keep askin’ me about it if you already know? And I’m supposed to be the one that’s crazy?”
“All I need to do is tell them the truth.”
“Oh, and you think that’ll get you out of this mess? You already told them your truth and here we are. What’s my truth gonna do to help matters?” When he saw Paul start to trip over what he wanted to say next, Hank continued. “Telling them about me would only get me tossed into some cave or, more likely, killed. I’m more valuable to you alive. I can help you out with your problem.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because, in case you’ve already forgotten, you saved my hide by going along with me back there. The least I can do is return the favor. Besides, if what you said about them young’uns of yours is true—”
“Of course it’s true,” Paul snapped.
“Then I couldn’t just let you fumble along on your own while they get sicker, could I? After all . . . I’m not some kind of animal.”
“Maybe I don’t want your help.”
“Come, now, don’t pout. Sounds to me like you need all the help you can get. Any idea where to look next?”
“First I need to worry about getting untied. Then I’ll think about where to go from there.”
“Let’s ask them about that,” Hank said as he nodded toward a small group of approaching men.
The Comanches who walked up to them stared down intently at the two prisoners. There were three men and one stood in front of Paul and Hank while the other two walked around behind them.
When he heard the sound of sharpened stone brushing against tanned leather, Paul closed his eyes and thought of his children. Although he was correct in guessing that sound was a knife being drawn from its scabbard, the blade was not meant for either his or Hank’s back. Instead two swift cuts were made that didn’t draw a single drop of blood.
“Stand,” the Comanche in front of them said.
Hank was first to attempt to follow the order and realized he was able to do so since the ropes tying him to the stakes had also been cut. Paul moved next, quickly discovering that he’d been freed as well. When they got to their feet, Paul turned around to see the Comanches were still behind them with knives drawn expectantly.
“Now,” the lead Comanche said. “Start walking.”
“Wh-where are we going?” Paul asked.
“Walk.”
Without any other viable options in front of them, they started walking.
After less than a dozen steps, Paul knew they were being taken back to Buffalo Horn. Instead of being forced into the teepee, they were met outside it by the chief and Red Feather. Compared to the scowl worn by the younger warrior now, Red Feather had been positively jovial the last time they’d spoken.
“You are being released,” Buffalo Horn announced.
“Thank you!” Paul said. Acting on reflex, he started rushing forward to shake the old man’s hand. Before he’d taken more than one step in that direction, he was stopped by the two men behind him. Even being roughly pulled back to his starting spot wasn’t enough to dampen his spirits. “I truly appreciate this. As far as the matter with the arrow goes, perhaps the poison came from one of the men riding with the raiding party. I’ve been thinking and . . . I know it’s asking a lot, but perhaps if you spoke with them you might find out if one of them was particularly angry or wanted to do extra harm.”
“We have already spoken to them,” Red Feather said. “They know nothing of this poison.”
“Then could you at least spare whatever poison you may use on some other occasions?”
“We use no poisons,” Buffalo Horn said. “Not the way you speak of. But, poison or no poison, some of my people are responsible for your children being hurt. Because of that, it is only right that my people help set the matter straight.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Paul insisted.
Much more vehemently, Hank added, “He’s right. That won’t be necessary. We know right where to go from here.”
“Where will you go?” Buffalo Horn asked.
Hank looked over to Paul, who could only work his jaw as if chewing on potential responses like a cow gnawing on its cud.
The Comanche chief smirked and said, “Another set of eyes can never hurt. And if you do find another group of hunters using poison arrows, they will most likely not want to help a pair of white men. Red Feather will go with you to deal with them and then he will speak to me about what he finds.”
“Oh,” Paul said. “Well . . . all right. I suppose.”
“I am glad you agree,” Buffalo Horn said. “Both of you will now have something to eat while your horses are being tended. Then you will move swiftly so that your children may once again breathe easy as children should.”
“That’s real kind of you, sir,” Paul said.
“Yeah,” Hank groaned less enthusiastically. “Mighty generous.”
Chapter 19
The Comanches tending to the horses were wiry young men who did their jobs with swift and steady hands. As he rode away from the village, Paul rubbed his horse’s neck and admired the smooth feel of her coat. “I don’t think she’s ever been in such good condition,” he mused. “Probably won’t be so well cared for again.”
All three of them rode side by side with Red Feather on the farthest left end of the formation. Without looking over at him, the Comanche asked, “What is her name?”
“The horse?”
“Yes.”
“I forgot,” Paul replied. “Abigail . . . my daughter . . . I think she named her something or other, but I can’t recall what it was.”
“You do not care to know the names of your horses?”
“They pull the wagon and that’s about it. I doubt they much care to learn my name,” Paul added with a chuckle.
Red Feather didn’t find the observation very amusing.
“So,” Hank said. “Is it just you coming along with us on this ride?”
“Do you see anyone else?” the Comanche replied.
“You know just as well as I do that just because we don’t see someone, that don’t mean they ain’t there.”
Letting out a long breath, Red Feather said, “Our men are needed to watch our tribes.”
“So it is the three villages all crammed together into that one camp, huh?” Hank asked.
“It is.”
“Why might that be?”
“Surely you know already.”
“Me and Paul here may both be white men, but we’re not exactly in on the plans of every other paleface in Colorado.”
For some reason, Red Feather cracked half a smile when he heard that. “I believe you two are not hired by the men who have made war with our th
ree villages.”
“You just figure that out?” Hank asked.
“Yes. Those men are rich. You smell like you have worn the same clothes for five seasons.”
“Ho-hooo!” Hank bellowed as if he were performing in front of an adoring audience. “Listen to the savage calling me the filthy one! Least I can dress in something other than what you scraped off the side of a deer carcass.”
“Stop it,” Paul said. “We’ve got a job to do, so let’s just keep at it until it’s done.”
“You’ve got the job to do. We’re just along for the ride,” Hank said in a huff.
“Where are we going?” Red Feather asked. “The sooner I can be rid of the both of you, the better.”
Paul pulled back hard enough on his reins to bring his horse to a sudden stop. The other two quickly followed suit and looked to him for an explanation. Paul was all too ready to give them one. “You are supposed to be my guide, Hank. I tell you I’m looking for the raiding party that attacked that trading post, so tell me where else to look.”
“Right there,” Hank said while sweeping an arm over to Red Feather. “Didn’t you hear him say so back at the village?”
Looking over to the Comanche, Paul said, “And you claim your men would never use poison on your arrows? I’ve heard tell that Indians poison their arrows when they want to be sure to make a kill, whether it’s a clean kill or not.”
“You have probably heard a lot of things about us,” Red Feather replied. “Most likely, those stories are much like the ones we tell about the white man. Stories full of blood and evil spirits and monsters. I already told you my riders do not use poison on their arrows. There is no need for it.”
“Then why are you here with us?” Paul asked.
“Because Buffalo Horn asked me to go.”
“Did you intend on just riding alongside us and griping the whole way?”
“Neither of you knows where you are going,” the Comanche said. “I will make sure you do no harm as you wander about like wild dogs with one good eye between you.”
The Dangerous Land Page 12