Comanche Dawn

by Mike Blakely

  Governor Del Bosque nodded solemnly. “The seduction of the wild. I have seen it also.”

  “On the other hand, a savage blessed with salvation remains faithful only on the most precarious of terms. I know very well that many of our genízaros continue to practice their old heathen rituals in secret, right here in the city of Santa Fe. The ranchería of Tachichichi is nothing more than a den of such backsliders worshiping false gods upon heathen altars.”

  Del Bosque sighed. “Yes, a novice among white men reverts easily to his heathen ways, while a white man among Indios all too often turns irretrievably savage.”

  Father Ugarte finished his glass of wine and smacked his lips thankfully. “There are exceptions—men with faith enough to reject the false religions of the savages. The Frenchman, for example, Juan Archebeque.”

  “Ah, yes, Juan.”

  “He spent two years among the Jumanos. His facial tattoos bear witness to the fact that he must have completed the tribal rituals of those barbaric people. Yet, he sought a return to civilization and Christian ways. I was with the expedition onto the plains that found him almost dead of thirst, Governor. He had heard of our exploring party and deserted the Jumanos at peril of his life to find us.”

  “Yes, for all he knew he might have been garroted as a French spy. He must have relished Christian companionship to take such a risk.”

  “I have watched him since his return to civilization. He has made remarkable strides. Not even the death of his wife has shaken his faith. In fact, I think he is stronger because of her passing. His sons are good Christian boys. His hacienda is orderly and productive. He attends mass regularly. He often travels alone among the Norteños, yet has resisted the temptation to revert to heathen rituals.”

  “Yes, his example is most encouraging.”

  “Still, I fear for his soul.”

  “Juan? Why, Gabrielle?”

  “He has befriended that savage called Acaballo, the chief of the Comanches.”

  “Yes, so I have seen, but Juan forges many friendships among the savages. It is only for trade purposes. And, I believe, for the purpose of gradually introducing the savages to Christianity.”

  “So I thought, too, Governor. But, this is something different.”

  “How do you know, Father? Have you seen or heard something?”

  “I would not raise my concerns to you had I not. A few days ago, I was in the belfry of the Mission San Miguel chapel and I saw Juan and the Comanche, Acaballo, riding toward the chapel gates. Juan had not come to confession for some time, and I assumed, perhaps too optimistically, that this was the reason for his visit. So, I descended to the confessional to await his arrival. No sooner had I concealed myself in the confessional than I heard the chapel door open. Peeking through a crack, I saw Juan enter alone. He looked about the chapel—as if to make sure no one was present—then he went back out to bring Acaballo into the chapel with him.

  “I remained silent in the confessional as Juan and the Comanche walked to the altar. They were speaking in that Yuta tongue, so I could not understand their words, but Juan’s voice carried the unmistakable tone of a man struggling with doubt.”

  Governor Del Bosque’s face went blank as his whole body seemed to freeze. “What are you suggesting, Father?”

  Ugarte raised his callused palm to comfort the governor. “Relax. Hear me. I know Juan wants to do the right thing. He was trying to tell Acaballo about Jesus Christ, Our Savior. That much was obvious. Yet, at the same time, he was engaging in religious debate with that heathen. Debate, Governor. The savage had manipulated him into a defensive posture.”

  Del Bosque shook his head. “But, if you couldn’t understand their words, Father, how can you be certain?”

  “The tone of voice was unmistakable, and in addition, they conversed through the hand signs of the Norteños, and you know how suggestive and representative that language can be. I am certain. I was in the confessional, after all, and I trust completely in the intuition God grants me on these matters. In the end, Acaballo turned and walked out, rejecting Juan’s arguments. Juan stood alone for some time, in doubt, before he left. He made the cross, but he was shaken, Governor.”

  “It is well that you came to me, Gabrielle,” the governor said, engaging his diplomatic guiles. “I will handle this matter before it becomes any more serious.”

  “But, there is more, Antonio. After the incident in the mission chapel, I put one of my Apache genízaros to following Juan and the Comanche—stealthily, so he would not be detected. He witnessed something very bizarre in the foothills. Juan and Acaballo went hunting. The Comanche killed a chaparral bird with an arrow. Then, he and Juan buried it in a mock Christian ceremony. They erected a cross over the grave of the bird! This is dangerous, Governor, for the Holy Office of the Inquisition would certainly judge such action as heresy.”

  “You don’t intend…”

  “No. Not yet. Even though I place myself in peril by not reporting these facts to the Inquisitor in Mexico City. But, I fear for our Christian friend, Antonio. He spent two years with the Jumanos, and before that, he lived with Jesuits and heretical Huguenots at La Salle’s ill-fated fort on the Tejas coast. I have heard about some of the fantastic perversions that occurred there!”

  Governor Del Bosque kneaded his brow so forcefully that he reddened the pale skin. “I will speak with him, Father. I will warn him quite adamantly.”

  Ugarte shook his finger. “I am afraid we will frighten him back into the wilderness if you do that. He travels so often among the Norteños, that he could easily slip away and be lost forever.”

  “But he has such a fine hacienda, and two sons!”

  “I am afraid we will lose the boys, too. They are very small, but already he teaches them to ride. I fear we may lose them all.”

  “What can I do, Father? Juan is useful to the colony. I believe he wants to be a good Christian. You yourself have said he wants to do the right thing. If he is experiencing doubt—as even Christ did in the garden—then I wish to reassure him, to bolster his faith.”

  Father Ugarte nodded. “As do I, my friend. That is why I came to you instead of writing to Mexico City, because I believe you will handle this matter with more care than the bishop or the Inquisitor. I am confident that God gives us the wisdom to deal with this challenge.”

  Shifting uneasily in his chair, the governor said, “What shall I do?”

  “It is very simple. We must remove this heathen influence from Juan’s life.”

  Governor Del Bosque got up and reached for the wine bottle, turning his back on the friar. Ugarte knew this subject would strain his good working relationship with the governor, so he remained silent now as Del Bosque contemplated the issue. He considered the governor a capable administrator, and a crafty politician. Together, the two men had managed to work together, a feat some other governors and father custodians had found impossible to achieve, to the point of bloodshed and imprisonments. They usually kept their noses out of each other’s business, but occasionally Father Ugarte found need to press a particular issue. On these rare occasions, Governor Del Bosque knew enough to grit his teeth and let the friar meddle.

  “What do you have in mind?” the governor grumbled, turning to face the friar.

  “Send the Frenchman off on some errand that precludes his taking the Comanche with him. Meanwhile, I will have Capitán Lujan help me in subduing the savage. The trade caravan will leave soon. I think it is best that we baptize Acaballo and send him south as a genízaro. You remember what he said to us the day he arrived. He said he had come here for the rescate.”

  Del Bosque rubbed his stomach with his fingertips, as if it were burning with the pressures of his station. “Juan claims that the Yuta only tricked him into saying that.”

  “No matter. The rescate is the best thing for him.”

  “What if Acaballo refuses to be reduced?”

  “The savages understand savage ways. Leave the reduction of the Comanche to me and Cap
itán Lujan. And to God, of course.”

  Governor Del Bosque paced across his study for some time, clearly uncomfortable with the entire arrangement. Finally, he looked at the friar. “It is almost time to gather the ciboleros for the annual buffalo hunt. This year, I am going to send Juan out onto the plains to treat with Apaches over hunting grounds. Perhaps this will spare the cibolero expedition the usual attack. It is said that the Apaches and the Comanches are bitter enemies. Juan will not take Acaballo with him into Apache country.”

  Father Ugarte resisted his urge to gloat. Instead he donned a smile of gratitude and bowed his head humbly. “This gives me hope for the soul of our French brother in Christ.” He clasped Del Bosque’s hand between both of his own. “And if Juan Archebeque is correct in his wild predictions about this new nation of Comanche horsemen, then it is important that we make an example of Acaballo. We will send a message to the Comanches. This is Christian domain. Walk here only by the grace of Jesus Christ.”

  37

  Horseback sat upon the rawhide-covered saddle tree given to him by Raccoon-Eyes, trying to figure out why a man would let such a thing come between himself and his pony. The sheepskin pad felt good, and the high cantle lifted him upward as his line-back dun pony climbed the steep mountainside. But he felt uneasy about the large pommel situated in front of his groin. It might prevent him from sliding forward if his mount came to a sudden stop, or had to descend a steep embankment, but then again, it might crush both his testicles in a fall, preventing any chance of making warrior sons with Teal.

  Coming to a high, level roll in the terrain, he made a loop in the reata Raccoon-Eyes had given him, his pony immediately becoming nervous about the snakelike noose shaking and whirling in the rider’s hand. This made Horseback smile, in spite of his uneasiness, for he loved the feeling of four powerful hooves dancing beneath him.

  He felt alone today. The Noomah were far away in the poor country to the north. Teal was somewhere with the Corn People. Bear Heart was healing like a hurt dog at the village of Tachichichi. Shaggy Hump, Echo, and Whip were over the mountains stealing horses from the Na-vohnuh. Bad Camper had gone back to Yuta country. Speaks Twice had returned to Tachichichi. And now, Raccoon-Eyes had gone away on some mysterious errand. The only friend Horseback had left in this strange country of Metal Men was Paniagua, the Tiwa slave who was not a slave, who tended Raccoon-Eyes’s horses.

  He made the noose whirl above his head as the dark riders of the south had taught him. The rope made a song in the air, and the song made his pony want to run away.

  “Listen,” Horseback said to the pony. “This song is good. You will like this song in time.”

  As he watched the rope pass over his head, the beauty of the tall aspen trees made him smile, and he forgot his uneasiness for a moment. The leaves had turned golden, and they fluttered in the breeze like sunlight on water. He was high in the mountains, and the trees were tall, the white trunks rising about him like the bare ribs of some huge carcass. It was cool up here, and his flesh tightened over his muscle as he whirled the rope and reined in the nervous pony.

  The conversation he had had with Raccoon-Eyes came back to him again, like the mystery of an echo.

  “You must go back to your country,” Raccoon-Eyes had warned.

  “Why?”

  “Something is going to happen.”

  “What?”

  “I do not know. Something bad. The peace chief sends me away, and I fear you will be in danger. You must go away for a while.”

  “I cannot go,” Horseback had replied. “I must wait until my father and my friends come back to our camp.”

  Raccoon-Eyes had frowned and said, “Do not sleep at your camp. Sleep in the timber. Stay away from your lodge at night. Keep your ponies ready to move. As soon as your friends return, leave the country of the Metal Men. Most important, beware of the Black Robe and the soldiers.”

  As Horseback remembered the warning words of Raccoon-Eyes, he shook the rope all over the body of his pony. He ran the loop up the side of the dun’s neck, then flipped it around the back of his rump. This made the dun lunge and tremble and sweat. Horseback laughed, easing for a moment the bad feeling in his heart, as if he were giving all his worry to the pony through his rope.

  Now he swung the loop over his head again and urged the pony into a slow lope. He watched the beauty of the aspen grove pass overhead as the rope song played. His people were going to be glad about the things he had learned here in the Sacred South.

  A noise intruded on the good rope song, and Horseback felt it the instant he heard it—felt it through the body and the legs of his pony—a hind hoof striking something hard, something that rang with a single dull musical note.

  Reining the pony around quickly in the tall grass, Horseback leaned to one side to see what the hoof had kicked. He grabbed the pommel and swooped low to see it close. The grass parted, and the curve of a deer antler rose from the ground like a snake throwing a hump in his back. In terror, Horseback tried to draw away, but his nervous pony felt him flinch and shied quickly to the right. As Horseback felt the strange saddle pull out from under his right leg, he heard the reata he held whir across the pommel, the strange noise causing the pony to bolt from the hallowed ground of the sacred deer.

  He landed in the grass beside the deer antler, and to his horror, found it freshly broken where his pony had kicked it. He scrambled to his feet as he heard his mount running away. His shoulder hurt from the impact with the ground, and he heard the laughter of vengeful spirits in a wicked wind that whistled through branches. He wanted to pick up the broken antler and put it back together, but he knew it was too late. To touch it now would only further defile it, for his puha had been instantly tainted in a moment of carelessness.

  “Oo-bia!” he cried out in anguish as his heart suddenly swelled with a very bad feeling. Father Sun looked around a cloud, his gaze hot and angry on Horseback’s bare shoulders. He could not even bring himself to look up, fearing Father Sun would strike him blind for this wanton disrespect.

  He backed away from the broken deer antler, and ran the way his pony had gone, back down the mountain toward Santa Fe. He felt as though he would be sick. His heart made bad blood go all through his body, down into his limbs. He had been too occupied with matters of humans to watch the ground for spirit signs. This was worse than stepping on the track of a deer. Worse than eating the food a deer would eat. He had broken the weapon of a warrior buck. This was as bad as letting an unclean woman carry his shield.

  Now Horseback knew real fear. His weapons would be as useless as if they, too, were broken. Killing the Sacred Bird of the South had been foolish, but Raccoon-Eyes had helped him atone, and his powers had recovered. But now he had violated the trust of his very own spirit-guide, and he would certainly suffer.

  He heard Spirit Talker’s voice far across the many sleeps and remembered his warning: “Hold sacred the horns of the deer.” Spirit Talker had tried to warn him about the dangerous burdens of powerful medicine. Raccoon-Eyes had cautioned him about the dark shadow made by the bright shining light. And still, he had let this thing happen. Tears filled his eyes as he cursed himself for his own stupidity. Already, he was weak. He doubted he could even string his bow, much less draw it. If he should die now—whether killed by enemies or animals or fever or injury—he would suffer evermore in the Shadow Land. The elders said this was a hard fate. Harder than hard.

  The hoofbeats of the pony had faded, and Horseback found himself afoot, alone. Not even his spirit-guide would walk with him now, for Sound-the-Sun-Makes was angry, and was even at this moment deciding how to punish the lowly human who had insulted him.

  His heart beat furiously with fear, and he fell to his knees, tears blurring his vision. How had he been so stupid? It was his first duty to honor his spirit-guide, and he had been seduced by human games, whirling a rope above his head. He was ashamed, weak, unworthy of his vision. He was vulnerable, helpless. Any enemy who came to him now would
easily overpower him, and take him away for enemy women to torture slowly through days of agony. This was probably what the spirits had in store for him. It was just punishment.

  He longed to speak to Spirit Talker now, or even his own father, Shaggy Hump. Perhaps one of them would know a means of redemption. What would they say? Whatever it was, it would begin with sweats and purification by cedar smoke. Yes, there was some hope. He would go back to his camp and build a sweat lodge. He would fast and sweat, then sit in his lodge and purify himself with smoke that would carry his prayers of humiliation up to the Great Creator. Perhaps he would be granted a vision that would tell him what he must do to make amends for the terrible affront of the broken antler.

  Yes, he would try to be pure and strong again. He rose and began stumbling downhill. This was simply horrible. He was afraid. How could he have been so stupid? Never had he felt so weak and vulnerable. He did not know how his spirit-guide would punish him for this, but the punishment would be severe.

  He tried not to think about the vengeance of the Shadow Land because the spirits would only exceed whatever punishment he imagined. If he thought of sickness, the spirits would cripple him. But then, having thought of being crippled, the spirits would make him crazy as well. Crazy and crippled. He would be scorned and laughed at by his own people, and all his afflictions would follow him into the everlasting life of the Shadow Land. While his friends were getting fat on buffalo meat and killing enemies, he would be wandering, crippled and crazy in the Shadow Land.

  It was better not to even think of the punishment. Instead he would concentrate on his insolence, and try to figure out how he could keep it from ever happening again. He was almost glad that he was not riding a horse at this moment. He was not worthy of riding. The horse would probably kill him.

  “Oh, Sound-the-Sun Makes!” he moaned. “Oh, great spirit-protector. Forgive me this disrespect. Punish me well, Great One. Make me to suffer!”