He decided too--one night when the sleet was blowing and he was eating buffalo liver, far north of the Canadian River--t his father also feared his strength. Buffalo Hump was older; soon his strength would begin to fade. But he had been war chief of his band for a long time; he would not want to surrender his power, to a son or anyone.
His power would have to be taken, and Blue Duck wanted to be the one to take it.
In the cold morning he skinned the buffalo he had killed and took the hide back to the camp on the Cimarron, for the women to work. Only the two Kiowa women knew how to work with skins; the stolen white women had no such skills. The women were inept and so were many of the men. They were adequate when raiding white farmers, travellers with families, and the like, but in battle none of them were equal to the Comanches. They had no skill with any weapon except the rifle, and most of them were cowards, as well. A few Comanche warriors could make short work of them, a thing Blue Duck knew well.
He meant to kill his father, but it was not a thing he would attempt hastily. His father was too alert, and too dangerous. He might have to wait until his father weakened; perhaps an illness would strike Buffalo Hump, or a white soldier kill him; or perhaps he would just grow careless when on a hunt and die of an accident.
As the years passed Blue Duck's fame spread, thanks to his random and merciless killings. He was a wanted man in the eastern country, the country of trees. In Arkansas and in east Texas or Louisiana his name was feared by people who had never heard of Buffalo Hump; people who had no reason to fear a Comanche attack feared Blue Duck. He became expert at working the line between the wild country and the settled.
He knew where there were effective lawmen and where there were not. Many of his renegades were shot, and not a few captured, tried, and hung, but Blue Duck shifted away. He robbed at night, then went north into Kansas; few white lawmen had ever seen him, but all knew of him.
His restlessness did not leave him, or his frustration. He was a Comanche who was not allowed to live as a Comanche, and the injustice rankled.
Many times he went back to the Comanche country, sometimes camping in it for days, alone. He was careful, though, to stay well away from his father's people.
He didn't fear Slow Tree, but he knew that if he gave Buffalo Hump enough provocation Buffalo Hump would come after him and hunt him to death, if he could.
Blue Duck, cool in the attack, but impatient in most other aspects of life, knew that he needed to be patient in the matter of his father. He was the younger man; he had only to wait until time weakened his father, or removed him. Now and then his hot blood urged him not to wait, to challenge his father and kill him. But in cooler moments he knew that was folly. Even if he killed Buffalo Hump there were other warriors who would hunt him down and kill him.
In the east, among the forests, the name of Blue Duck was most feared. Even on the mch-travelled army roads few travellers felt safe. The gun merchants in Arkansas and Mississippi sold many guns to travellers who hoped to protect themselves from Blue Duck, Ermoke, and their men.
Many of those travellers died, new guns or no; Blue Duck's wealth grew; but, despite it, he still went back, every few months, to ride the comancher@ia, the long plains of grass.
The morning after Nellie's funeral, Augustus McCrae disappeared. He had been seen the night before, drinking in his usual saloon, but when morning came he was nowhere to be found. His favorite horse, a black mare, was not in the stables, and there was no sign that he had been back to the room where he had lived with Nellie.
Call was surprised, and a little disturbed. When Geneva, his first wife, died, Gus had sought company wherever he could find it. He stayed in the saloons or the whorehouses for over two weeks, and was hardly fit for rangering duties once he did resume them. On a trip to Laredo, where banditry had been especially rife, he had been thrown from his horse three times, due to inebriation. The fact that he had chosen a half-broken, untrustworthy horse for the ride to Laredo was evidence that his mind was not on his work. Augustus had always been careful to choose gentle, well-broken mounts.
Call was annoyed by his friend's sudden disappearance. Even allowing for grief, and Gus had seemed sadly grieved, it was unprofessional behaviour in view of the unsettled state of things. Call supposed, himself, that the war fever would soon abate at least a little. Texas wasn't in the war yet, and when the eager volunteers discovered how far they would have to travel to get into a battle, many of them, he suspected, would develop second thoughts. Many would elect to stay at home and see if the war spread in their direction. It wasn't like the Mexican conflict, where men could ride south for a day or two and join in battle.
Still, it was a war, and the Governor's concern about the local defenses was justified. Governor Clark had an assistant, a man named Barkeley, a small man who fancied that he was a large cog in the machinery of state government.
Augustus McCrae had promised the Governor an answer regarding his intentions, and Mr. Barkeley wanted it.
"Where's McCrae? The governor's in a hurry and so am I," Barkeley wanted to know, presenting himself at the ranger stables with an air of impatience.
"He's not here," Call said.
"Where is he, then? This is damned inconvenient," Barkeley snapped.
"I don't know where he is," Call admitted. "He just buried his wife. He may have wanted to take a ride and mourn a little." "We're all apt to have to bury wives," Barkeley replied. "McCrae has no business doing it on state time. Can't you send someone to find him?" "No, but you're welcome to go look yourself," Call said, piqued by the man's tone.
"Go look, what do you mean, sir?" Barkeley said. "Look where?" "He was here yesterday, I expect that means he's still somewhere in the state," Call informed the man, before turning on his heel.
By midafn, with Augustus still gone, Call became genuinely worried. He had never married and could not claim to know the emotions that might torment a man at the loss of a wife; but he knew they must be powerful. In the back of his mind was the sad fate of Long Bill Coleman, whose wife had not even been dead. Long Bill had seemed to be a troubled but stable man, only the day before he killed himself--and Augustus, if anything, was a good deal more flighty than Long Bill. The thought kept entering Call's mind that Augustus might have done something foolish, in his grief.
The Kickapoo tracker, Famous Shoes, the man so trusted by Captain Scull, lived with his wives and children not far north of Austin. Though Famous Shoes preferred the country along the Little Wichita, the Comanches had been violent lately in that region, killing several Kickapoo families. Famous Shoes had brought his family south, for safety. The army, hearing of his skill, tried to hire him to track for them on several expeditions, but their present leader, Colonel d. d.
McQuorquodale, insisted that all scouts be mounted, a form of travel that Famous Shoes rejected. Colonel McQuorquodale refused to believe that a man on foot could keep up with a column of mounted cavalry, despite numerous testimonials to Famous Shoes' speed and ability, one of them by Call himself.
"He not only keeps up, he gets three or four days ahead, if you don't keep him in sight," Call assured the Colonel. "He's the best I've ever seen at finding water holes, Colonel." "You'll need the water holes, too," Augustus said. He had a contempt for soldiers, but had been eavesdropping on the conversation while whittling on a stick.
"I have every confidence in my ability to find water, sir," Colonel McQuorquodale said. "I run the scouts, and they'll travel the way I tell them to, if they expect to work for Dan McQuorquodale." On the Colonel's next expedition west, sixteen cavalry horses starved to death and several men came close to it, saved only by a heavy spring rain. Despite this evidence of the variability of water sources on the western plains, Colonel McQuorquodale refused to relax his requirements, and Famous Shoes continued to refuse to ride horses, the result being that he was in his camp, surrounded by his wives and children, when Call and Pea Eye sought him out.
Call wanted to know if Famous Shoes was
available to conduct a quick search for Augustus.
When they arrived Famous Shoes was holding the paw of a small animal of some sort, studying it with deep curiosity. His wives were smiling as if they shared some joke, but Famous Shoes was only interested in the paw.
"We've lost Captain McCrae," Call said, dismounting. "Are you busy, or could you find the time to go look for him?" "Right now I am wondering about this paw," Famous Shoes said. "It is the paw of a ferret my wives killed, but they cooked it when I was away. I did not get to look at the ferret." "Why would you need to look at it, if it was tasty?" Pea Eye asked. Over the years he had grown fond of Famous Shoes--he liked it that the Kickapoo was curious about things that other men didn't even notice.
"This ferret did not belong here," Famous Shoes informed him. "Once I went to the north and I saw many weasels like this near the Platte River. This ferret was black, but all the ferrets around here are brown. This is the kind of ferret that ought to be up by the Platte River." Famous Shoes' penchant for diverting himself for days in order to investigate things that didn't particularly require investigation was one of the things that tried Call's patience with him.
"Maybe it was just born off-color," Pea Eye suggested. "Sometimes you'll see a litter of white pigs with one black pig in it." "This paw is from a ferret, it is not a pig," Famous Shoes said, unpersuaded by Pea Eye's suggestion. He saw, though, that Captain Call was impatient--Captain Call was always impatient--s he put the ferret's paw in his pouch for future study.
"Captain McCrae went by this morning early," Famous Shoes said. "It was foggy here.
I did not see him but I heard him say something to his mare. He is on that black mare he likes, and he is going west. I saw his track while I was looking for some more of these ferrets." "His wife died, I expect he's just grieving," Call said. "I'd be obliged if you'd track him and see if you can get him to come back." Famous Shoes considered the matter in silence for a moment. He could not do anything about the fact that Captain McCrae's wife had died--if Captain McCrae had a wife to mourn he had probably gone away so he could mourn her without anyone interfering with him too much. Also, he himself now had an interesting problem to study, the problem of the black ferret; he was comfortably settled in with his wives and children and did not particularly want to go anywhere. But Captain Call had helped him with the army, when the Colonel who wanted all scouts to ride horses had decided to put him in jail because he refused to ride. Famous Shoes had carefully explained to the Colonel, and to his captains and lieutenants, his views on horses; there were several reasons why it was not wise for Kickapoos to ride horses; besides those reasons there was a simple reason that should have been apparent to the Colonel and his men, which was that it was impossible to track expertly from the back of a horse, a tracker needed his eyes close to the ground if he were to see the fine details that would tell him what he needed to know. The qualities of dust and dirt were important to a tracker; no one could know what the dust revealed without kneeling often to feel it and study it.
The white colonel had not been interested in any of that--he had promptly put Famous Shoes in jail for disobedience. Fortunately Captain Call heard about the matter quickly and soon got him out. He and Captain McCrae had complained to the white colonel, too-- Captain McCrae had even yelled at the Colonel; he let him know that Famous Shoes was needed by the Texas Rangers and was not to be interfered with.
In view of the help he had received, Famous Shoes thought he ought to lay aside the problem of the black ferret for a bit and go locate Captain McCrae. He had known Captain McCrae for a number of years and knew that he did not behave like most white men. Captain McCrae's behaviour reminded him of some friends he had who were Choctaw. Captain Call was very much a white man; he lived by rules. But Captain McCrae had little patience with rules; he lived by what was inside him, by the urgings of his heart and his spirit--and now, grieved by the death of his wife, Captain McCrae's spirit urged him to get on his black mare and go west. Already, that morning, Famous Shoes had the feeling that something unusual was happening with Captain McCrae.
He was not going away to do some chore that he would be paid for. He was going away for a different reason.
Famous Shoes got up and led the two rangers over to the stream, to show them the tracks where the black mare had crossed.
"I will go find him--I think it will take me many days," Famous Shoes said.
Captain Call looked displeased, but he didn't disagree with the statement. He himself probably felt that something unusual was happening with his friend.
"Why would it take so many days if he just left?" Pea Eye asked. Tracking was a mystery to him. He liked to watch Famous Shoes as he did it, but he didn't understand the process involved. The track he saw by the stream just told him that a horse had passed. Which horse, and where it was going, and how heavy a rider it was carrying were all obvious to Famous Shoes but not obvious to Pea Eye. Even more puzzling was Famous Shoes' ability to predict things about the traveller, his mood or circumstance, that he himself could not have guessed even if he were with the traveller and looking him right in the eye.
Captain McCrae himself had been doubtful of the scout's ability to figure out such things, and said so often.
"He's just guessing," Augustus said. "When he's right it's luck and when he's wrong nobody knows about it because whoever he's guessing about gets away." "I don't think he's guessing," Call had protested. "He's got nothing to do but track, and think about tracking--and he ain't young. He's learned it. He gathers information that we can't see, and puts it together." Pea Eye thought Captain Call probably had the better of the argument. The tracker's very next comment was a case in point.
"He's looking for peace and cannot find it here along the Guadalupe," Famous Shoes said.
"I think he will have to go a long way to find it.
He may have to go to the Rio Pecos." "The Pecosffwas Call exclaimed. "The Governor will fire him if he goes that far." "I don't think the Captain will care," Famous Shoes said.
"No, you're right," Call said, once he had considered. He thought the matter over for a minute, looking west into the hills.
"I'm going to send Corporal Parker with you," he told Famous Shoes. There were no graded ranks in the rangers, but he and Gus had taken to calling Pea Eye "Corporal" because they liked him. He was not a confident young man--it flattered him a little to be thought of as a corporal.
"We can leave now," Famous Shoes said.
"Maybe we can spot another of those black ferrets while we are tracking Captain McCrae." Pea Eye was startled but pleased--travelling with Famous Shoes would be instructive. The man was already trotting west; he did not seem to think it necessary to go back and speak to his wives.
"Stay with him, Corporal," Call said.
"I'll stay with him, Captain," Pea Eye said.
He had no more than said it when he looked around and noticed that Famous Shoes, the man he had just promised to stay with, had disappeared. The hilly country was patched with clumps of cedar, juniper, live oak, chaparral, and various other bushes.
Pea Eye felt something like panic. He had not taken even one step westward and had already lost the man he was travelling with--and Captain Call was right there to see it.
Call noticed Pea Eye's confusion, and remembered how annoyed he had been at first, and how confused, when Famous Shoes would just disappear, often for days.
"There he is," Call said, pointing at Famous Shoes, who was crossing a little hillock some two hundred yards to the west.
"I expected he just squatted behind a bush to look at a track," he added.
"Maybe it was a ferret track," Pea Eye said, much relieved. "He's got a powerful interest in ferrets.
"What is a ferret, Captain?" he asked --he wasn't quite sure and did not want to appear ignorant, as he travelled with Famous Shoes.
"Well, it's a varmint of the weasel family, I believe," Call said. "You best catch up with Famous Shoes and ask him. He might lecture you o
n ferrets all the way to the Pecos, if you have to go that far." "I don't know why Gus would want to go all the way to the Pecos," he said, but Pea Eye had his eye fixed on Famous Shoes, clearly worried that he might disappear again.
"I'm going, Captain, before I lose him," Pea Eye said.
He put his horse in a lope and was soon beside the tracker, who neither stopped nor looked around.
Watching them go, Call felt both relief and envy: relief that Famous Shoes had accepted the job; envy because he wished he could be as young and unburdened with duties as Pea Eye Parker.
It would be nice to be able to forget the Governor, and Barkeley, and the ledger keepers and just to ride west into the wild country. Perhaps, he thought, as he turned back, that was what Augustus wanted: just to be free for a few days, just to saddle his horse and ride.
Within an hour of leaving Captain Call, Pea Eye began to wish fervently that they would soon find Augustus McCrae, mainly because he had no confidence that he could stay with Famous Shoes. It wasn't that Famous Shoes travelled particularly fast--though it was certainly true he didn't travel slow. The problem was that he travelled irregularly, zigging and zagging, slipping into a copse of trees, loping off at right angles to the track, sometimes even doubling back if he spotted an animal or a bird he wanted to investigate. No matter how hard Pea Eye concentrated on staying with him, Famous Shoes continually disappeared. Every time it happened Pea Eye had to wonder if he would ever see the man again.
Larry McMurtry - Comanche Moon Page 57