Winter camp was peaceful because there would be no raiding. The horses, which were subsiding on winter grass and bark, would not have the stamina to take on raids. It was a time of regaining strength, and resting. No other Indian tribe would raid one other either, because they too, needed to rest for the winter. Their revenge upon the travelers overtaking their land, would have to wait until their horses and braves were stronger, once the winter passed.
Because of this, Little Mountain did not expect the New Mexico volunteers, led by Kit Carson, to suddenly come upon them. The mountain man headed 321 cavalrymen, along with 72 Indian scouts, made up of Utes and Jicanilla Apaches, who had no love for the Kiowas, but understood their thinking and tactics.
Entirely unaware of their approach, Little Mountain’s tribe, along with some Comanches, were hard-pressed to defend themselves. Unlike Islandman, in his moment of crisis, Little Mountain swiftly organized his warriors into an orderly retreat, protecting the women and children. He sent couriers galloping along the Canadian river, in both directions to alert other Kiowas and Comanches that were camped along the river, to come help fight off the white attackers.
Muraco, leaped onto Helaku’s back, looking over his shoulder just as Dohasan’s horse was shot out from under him. Still the brave Chief continued to fight against the attackers, as explosions of guns and cannon fire filled the air. Muraco urged his horse even faster, anxious to reach the neighboring tribes with haste. A sudden deep pain shot through his shoulder, but the white man’s rifle ball did not deter Muraco’s determination to gain help.
The other rider had gone in the opposite direction to seek help, and it was up to Muraco to alert all the other camps down river to join in the fight. Clinging to his horse’s mane, as he leaned over Helaku’s neck, he blocked everything out of his mind, except for his need to reach the nearby camps.
His voice sounded strong as he called to Kiowa brothers, and Comanche’s friends alike. He could not give way to the pain in his shoulder, nor indicate that anything was amiss. Muraco, watched as the warriors sped by him, heading back upriver, to lend their help, while he rode on to the next Indian camp, to give the alarm.
When he was certain that what had been expected of him had been accomplished, it was only then that he gave way to the throbbing in his shoulder. He could feel himself losing awareness, as he slumped against Helaku’s neck. All good Indian ponies were trained to take their rider to safety, so he put his faith in his trustworthy horse, and closed his eyes, thinking the pony would return to his camp.
However, the trusty pony could sense the danger, as the sound of gunfire and war cries of Kiowa and Comanche alike, rang out, the closer they got to winter camp. Instead, it turned and headed north, to higher ground, farther from the skirmish that was taking place below.
Muraco was not aware that Little Mountain, in his bravery, even with the help of his neighbors, was unable to fight back Kit Carson and his men. The weapon the cavalry brought with them, was a huge gun on wheels, used in the white man’s wars. It shot exploding balls with such force, there was no way to escape the earth exploding around them.
Even so, the brave Indian warriors were able to circle back to retrieve their herds of horses, but little else. The soldiers burned the camp, destroying their store of winter food, and winter shelter. It was a stunning blow to Little Mountain. He knew that the white attack would have been repelled if it had not been for the devastating weapon the enemy wielded. But against that terrible weapon, there was no defense. What was a man to do in the face of such inconceivable force?
Muraco was only vaguely aware of the steady movement of his pony, as it continued to wander a greater distance away from winter camp. He sank in and out of awareness, as he felt the warm blood dripping down his arm, and soaking through the front of his buckskin shirt. He heard someone groaning, and then suddenly realized it was himself making the sound. He was so thirsty; he could barely think of anything else but experiencing a cool drink of water.
He was not sure how long he remained on Helaku’s back, but when he finally, weakly, slid down to the soft green grass, he could see it was near a cave. He managed to crawl into the shelter of the opening, and then fell, unconscious against the hard floor of the cave.
Muraco jerked awake. He could hear a strange sound inside the cave. He hoped it was not a wild animal come to eat him in his moment of weakness. Then he heard it again. Slowly, he opened his eyes, to discover a white man’s cow giving birth not faraway. Where did the beast come from, he wondered. He closed his eyes again.
Then there was the soft sound of a woman’s voice. He recognized it as a white woman’s voice. She was talking to the cow, so he assumed the animal must belong to her. He wondered if he could trust her, but he had no other choice. He was so thirsty. Maybe she had some water with her.
Weakly, he tried to speak, but only a low moan escaped his throat. The woman turned her head and noticed him there. Their eyes met for one long wondrous moment, as he beheld her beauty. He was drawn in by the light color of her eyes, and the flame of her hair, as it fell against her shoulders.
“Tohn,” he breathed weakly, calling for water. “Tohn.”
The woman came closer. Her eyes were wide and bright. Their stark blue color impressed him. She didn’t look frightened, but merely curious, as she hesitantly knelt down beside him. “You are hurt,” she murmured, but he did not know what that meant. He only knew a few brief phrases of the white man’s tongue, like the word ‘no’ or ‘hello and good-bye’.
“Tohn,” he begged again.
“I don’t know what you want, but you have lost a lot of blood,” she said. Her face looked worried, and the kindness of her voice drew him. “You are probably thirsty,” she said quietly. Then she abruptly rose to her feet, and started to leave the cave.
She was going to leave him there to die, Muraco thought, and called out. “Ha-yah aim bon-mah?” (Where are you going?)
“I’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder, but he didn’t know what she was saying.
“Bay aim bah!”…. (Don’t go,) he called.
She wasn’t listening. As mysteriously as she had appeared, she also disappeared. Muraco decided he must have been dreaming.
CHAPTER THREE
I could not erase the picture of that wild heathen’s face from my memory, as I fled from the cave. I knew I was going to help him, but I worried I would be making a big mistake. I had heard about how the Kiowa and Comanche had been raiding farms and ranches in all directions, stealing and plundering, not to mention killing. So far, the Indians had not come to our farm. However, if I helped this Indian survive, he would know we were out here, and possibly bring the rest of his people to take advantage of us. Still, I could not stop myself. The look in the young man’s eyes grabbed me in a way I couldn’t explain, and I wanted to help him. After all, it was the Christian thing to do.
My heart pounded as I sprinted back towards the farm, to find something to make bandages with, and to bring back whatever I could, to help the Indian brave. It seemed like I was hampered by every bramble, fallen branch, or rock that cropped up along the way, causing me to stumble and leap at times, when my progress was hindered. The Indian had looked wild, but at the same time helpless. For all I knew, he would end up dying, no matter what I tried to do to help him. Thinking this, I picked up my pace.
His buckskin shirt had been soaked in his blood. I knew it was his blood that I had found on the Indian pony outside the cave. I was surprised to see he was wearing a belt made from silver twenty dollar pieces. He wore a small fortune around his waist, and probably didn’t even know it, I thought, as I continued back to of our farm.
My mind was racing ahead of my feet, as I got closer to the house. I couldn’t let anyone know what I was up to. If I did, they might try to stop me; especially Emmet, who even though he was two years younger than myself, felt that because he was a man, his decisions were more important than mine. We had our disagreements, when it came to running the
farm when father was away.
I would have to bring supplies to the cave, if I were to help the Indian. He would probably sneak away, once he was better anyway, I thought. No one would ever know he was even there.
“What is the rush?” Darie asked, as I came bursting through the door.
“Buttercup had her calf and I need to get some blankets and things for her,” I said lamely.
“Whatever for? She’s a cow, for heaven’s sake!’
“I want to dry the calf off before I bring it back. I need to bring her water, since she will be nursing her new one. I don’t plan to leave before the calf can walk well enough.” I started gathering up an old sheet to rip up for bandages, and grabbed a quilt from the foot of my bed.
I filled three canteens with water, snatched a tin cup off a hook above the sink, and took a tin bowl to put the water in, so I could wash the Indian’s wounds. Then I thought I should grab a half-filled bottle of whisky, to disinfect his wound; I knew my father kept in a drawer in his room.
I pushed my father’s clothes aside, along with a bundle of letters, tied with ribbon, as I rummaged for the bottle. I briefly paused, wondering why my father kept a collection of letters in his bureau drawer, and not in his desk. I didn’t have time to puzzle it out at the time, or even discover who had written the letters. I merely clutched the bottle in my hand and stuffed it in the pocket of my skirt, alongside my gun.
I cut some bread and cheese, and put it in a flower sack, along with some apples. “What’s the food for?” Darie wanted to know, wrinkling her forehead, as her blue eyes, the same shade as my eyes, stared curiously at me.
“I haven’t eaten, and I don’t know how long I am going to be gone, so don’t worry about me, if I don’t come back right away. I may stay with Buttercup the whole day, before I carry the calf home.”
“Emmet could do that,” she offered.
“No!” I snapped. “I want to do it. I raised Buttercup from a calf herself, so she is my responsibility!” I insisted. All I needed was for Emmet to discover what I was up to, I thought angrily. He would probably insist on putting an end to it, by shooting the Indian, instead of helping him.
Darie shrugged, and pushed the strands of her blond hair out of her eyes. “Suit yourself,” she murmured. “You’re just using it as an excuse to get out of doing anything else,” she accused.
“Don’t even accuse me!” I hissed. “I do more work around this place than all the rest of you put together. I’ve taken over for mother, so I deserve a day away taking care of my cow.”
“Don’t get all huffy!” Darie gave me a mock frown. “Where did she have the calf?”
“Out in the meadow,” I murmured, as I wrapped everything in the quilt and slung it over my shoulder. “Just make sure all your chores are done before I get back,” I warned, and headed back out the door, running back towards the cave where I had left the wounded Indian. I was hoping he hadn’t died before I could return to him.
When I came back into the cave, I could see that Buttercup was standing, and the calf was nursing. She didn’t look in any hurry to leave, so I merely patted her soft brown nose, as I passed her, and approached the Indian once again. His eyes were closed, but when I got nearer, his dark eyes flashed open, and he stabbed me with his stare.
The stare was intense, but also hopeful, in someway, or so I thought.
“Day own day bah tsahn,” he whispered in a husky voice. (I am so glad you came.)
I didn’t know what he was trying to tell me, but I could tell it hurt for him to talk. “Don’t talk,” I murmured, placing my hand over his mouth. “I am here to help you.”
He appeared to understand, because he let out a breath and closed his eyes again. I watched his chest rise and fall as he took in long, labored breaths. I touched his shoulder, to get his attention again, as I offered him one of the canteens of water. When he saw what it was, he grabbed it and started to guzzle it down, as he leaned on one elbow, for support.
“No!” I cautioned. “Not so fast!”
I took the canteen away, then offered it to him again, but would pull it back before he could take too much water in at one time. After a few moments, he caught on that I was trying to keep him from drinking too much too fast, after being without water, for no telling how long. He looked at me from under his long, dark lashes, giving me a half smile, as he drank slowly.
The water accomplished the task of reviving him, and his eyes would not leave me as I started laying out the things I would need to tend his wound.
“I need to take your shirt off,” I said, as I reached over and helped him to a sitting position. I began to untie the rawhide strips down one side of the shirt, where the material was laced together. He submissively allowed me to remove his shirt, but it stuck to his wound, from the dried blood, and he winced, as I pulled it free. Removing the shirt caused the wound to start bleeding again.
I could see the bullet had gone straight through his lower shoulder, and I hoped it missed any vital organs, as it passed through. He looked a little faint, as I dipped a piece of sheet in my bowl of water and started to wipe the blood away from his wound. I could tell he was trying to stay awake, as I stroked the cloth over his hard, dark, muscular chest. When I finished I reached for the whisky bottle.
“This is going to hurt,” I warned, as I started to pour some over the wound, before I got ready to bandage him. When the whisky touched his wound, he gave out a grunt, and then he grabbed the bottle from my hand, and took a swig of the whisky, handing it back, after one long swallow. Obviously, he knew what the bottle held.
I couldn’t help but laugh, as he glared at me, taking a second swig of the powerful drink. He tried to laugh as well, which irritated his wound, so he merely smiled back at me, and handed me the bottle. I busied myself ripping strips of sheet, in order to bind his wound. As I reached around him with my arms, to wrap the strips over both the back and front of his shoulder, I felt his hand reach out and touch my hair.
“Pi au-dau ,” (Fire hair) he murmured, as the red strands of my hair slipped through his fingers.
I pulled my hair from his hand, self-conscientiously, and continued to wrap the strips of sheet around his body. His face was so close to mine; it made me nervous. However, I had to finish bandaging his wound, so I tried to ignore the heat that was racing to my face as I felt his breath on my cheek. I had never been so close to a man before. Especially an Indian!
My hands began to tremble, as I continued to wrap the strips snugly around his chest and shoulder. My heart was pounding madly, wondering if I had made the right decision in helping this wild, unpredictable human being. Only my Christian upbringing, would not let me allow him to just lie there and die.
I felt his large hand reach out and steady my own hand. “Aim daw cigot,” (You are brave.) he murmured, catching my eyes with his.
I didn’t know what to think, or say, since I didn’t know what he meant, or what he needed. However, the look he gave me seemed kind. I just kept wrapping his wound, until I had finished. Then I turned, and took the tin cup, going over to Buttercup, and putting warm milk in the cup. I brought it back and handed it to him.
His eyes went soft. “Ah ho,” he said softly, and took the cup from me.
When he handed the cup back to me, he pointed to himself. “Muraco,” he said. Then he pointed to me, “Ha tsoe aim khaun?” I didn’t understand him, so he said it again, going through the motions, and it dawned on me that he was telling me his name, and asking me what my name was.
“Constance,” I told him.
“Khnstahn” he struggled with my name.
“Everyone calls me Connie,” I smiled. I pointed to myself. “Connie,” I repeated.
“Khni?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” I nodded, “You are Muraco,” I pointed to him, “and I am Connie,” I pointed to myself again.
He gave me a broad smile. “Hello, Khni,” he murmured, but then he seemed to grow tired, and he slowly laid back down.
&n
bsp; “Ah ho, Khni,” he said softly, before he closed his eyes. Later, I learned the word meant ‘thank you’.
I gazed down on him, and he looked as though he was giving into his pain again. His breathing was heavy and I watched his dark chest, with the contrasting white bandages against it, rise and fall, as he took in labored breaths.
I knew he would need rest, so I decided to busy myself, and picked up his blood-soaked shirt. I also grabbed the empty canteen, and left the cave, walking across the meadow to the stream which was a short distance away. When I reached it, I plunged his shirt into the water, watching the crystal blue water turn a pinkish red, and afterwords eventually clear, once all the blood was washed out. I wrung the shirt out, and rolled it up, laying it on a rock while I filled the canteen, then headed back to the cave, with the shirt and canteen in tow.
Muraco was still sleeping, when I returned. I had laid the shirt out over the branch of the tree, where his horse still stood. The blood on his horse had dried. I realized that horse was probably as thirsty as the Indian had been, but apparently, he was trained to remain where his master had left him.
I took up the single rein, which was tied under his jaw, and led it to the stream. While the horse drank, I washed the blood from its coat, and then brought it back to the tree once more, where it occupied itself eating the grass, close at hand.
I came back into the cave, and sat near Buttercup’s calf, which was a little heifer, curled up in a ball beside Buttercup, who had also was lying down.
“What should I call you?” I wondered as I stroked the soft coat of the new-born. “If it weren’t for you and Buttercup, I most likely never would have found poor Muraco,” I murmured. “Maybe I will call you Hope, because if I hadn’t come into this cave, that poor Indian wouldn’t have had any hope of anyone helping him, and he probably would have died. He may die anyway,” I said, trying to push the last thought aside.
Kiowa White Moon Page 3