Comanche Dawn

by Mike Blakely

  “When I was a boy,” Horseback said, “The Northern Raiders killed a great warrior of the Burnt Meat People. This warrior’s brother went to avenge the killing. The avenger’s spirit-guides told him he must take just one scalp as revenge for his brother’s death, and though he wanted to kill the whole Northern Raider nation, he honored his spirits. His shadow made more noise than he did as he crept into the camp of those who had killed his brother. He took one scalp, and left his arrow between the heads of two others who did not wake. This warrior was a great man. Greater than great.

  “I am going to kill Battle Scar. I go alone. When Battle Scar is dead, the Na-vohnuh will be weaker than weak, and never again will the True Humans think of losing this good country. The old war of our ancestors will be a memory. The new war of now will begin. I am Horseback. I have spoken.”

  68

  He rode the son of Medicine-Coat through the pass in the Rat Mountains, taking care to watch for trails of the sacred deer. The pony traveled at a good smooth walk that matched the trot of lesser mounts. Through the broad valley of antelopes he rode to Five Sleeps Mountain, Seven Sleeps Mountain, and Rabbit Ears Mountain, stopping often to smoke and pray.

  At the valley of Red Water, he saw a distant camp and recognized the lodges of Whip’s people. He saw some warriors riding toward him so he built a fire and piled on green cedar branches to make smoke. Using his saddle blanket, he collected the smoke and sent the signals into the air. Noomah. Horseback. I go alone. The warriors from Whip’s camp turned back to their lodges. Horseback felt sad, remembering how he had once smoked out rabbits with Whip, long before Whip’s heart went bad.

  He turned down the river and rode two sleeps and three smokes, until he knew he was near Battle Scar’s village. Then he dismounted and hobbled his horse. “Listen, pony. Stay in the timber where your coat matches the shadows. I leave the power of the Shadow-Dog behind. This night, I will use the courage and stealth of my father. When I return, I will bring you a plump mare to breed, and a fresh scalp to sniff, so you will smell the evil blood of my enemies, and learn to hate them as I do.”

  He painted his body black and waited for Father Sun to plunge his fiery head beyond the west. Then he felt for the medicine bundle in his loin skins, and walked down the river valley. He went cautiously, staying just under the rim of the river breaks where he could sneak through bushes and timber and stay in the darkest shadows. When the last wisps of twilight had melted from the sky, he had to stop and wait for the moon, for the earth had grown black.

  He prayed as he waited, and asked Sound-the-Sun-Makes for courage and puha. Horseback knew what happened to men killed at night. The same thing that happened to those who died of drowning or choking. Their souls became trapped in their rotting bodies, never to know the Shadow Land. If he failed tonight, his loneliness and shame would last forever.

  When the moon rose, half-full, Horseback continued toward the village of Battle Scar. He crept like a lion, for he knew Battle Scar posted scouts. Soon, he breathed his first whiff of the village. It smelled bad, for the Na-vohnuh had to stay in the same place from planting time to harvest time, and the stench of their dogs and horses and their own defecations mounted until it rivaled the smell of a putrid, stinking carcass. He was wrinkling his nose at this smell when he saw the scout.

  He might have stumbled upon the young warrior, had the enemy not crouched under a dirt bank to strike a Spanish chispa. The sparks flew from it in a flash, and the guard was seen making a small fire which he left burning only long enough to light a short deer antler pipe—but long enough to reveal the musket the warrior cradled.

  Horseback smiled. The spirits were with him. Now this foolish young scout had fire ghosts in his eyes and would not see. He was hiding under the dirt bank to conceal his fire and his pipe embers from his own people, so that he would not be punished, never thinking that an enemy warrior might see what he hid from his own village.

  Horseback crept down the riverbank, keeping out of sight, making no noise at all except for the passing of his own breath and the slight grind of soil under his moccasins. He came to the edge of the river, and slipped in, causing less sound than the river itself. He crouched in the shallow water until his eyes came just above the surface, and let the current carry him downstream. The stream was cool, but Horseback had learned to swim in icy waters when he was a boy. As he drifted with the current, staying in the shadows of the timber, he could see the orange embers of the young scout’s pipe on the riverbank above.

  He drifted past the corn fields, to the edge of the village, and crawled gradually out of the river, moving so slowly that his face had dried by the time his feet left the water. Now he studied the lodges. He saw a dog sleeping. He heard a pony stamp a foot, for the Na-vohnuh warriors kept a few of their best mounts tied in their village. Looking across the tops of the lodges, Horseback saw one in the middle that stood higher than the others, and knew this was Battle Scar’s, for the chief liked to surround himself with warriors, and let no one raise a lodge taller than his own.

  A child cried in one of the lodges, and Horseback rose to his feet. He passed a stand of three lances holding shields and quivers, and fought off the urge to urinate on the enemy weapons. He walked on silently, stopping often to crouch in the shadows of a lodge or a lone sohoobi sapling or a brush sunshade the Na-vohnuh had erected.

  He saw someone pass among the lodges ahead, whether man or woman, he could not say. He was only three lodges away from Battle Scar’s when a snarl ripped through the silence and a whirlwind of fur rushed upon him with teeth popping. The dog sprang, taking Horseback’s forearm in its jaws, but his knife was already in his hand, and he slashed upward, cutting deep through the throat. The dog yelped briefly, and Horseback lifted it, clamping his grip hard around its mouth and nostrils. He held the kicking legs above the ground as the hot blood of the dog bathed him.

  A man in the nearest lodge scolded the dog in strange Na-vohnuh words, but did not come outside. In the same lodge, a woman mimicked the yelp of the dog and giggled. Horseback held the dog until his muscles burned, for the animal was heavy, and he wanted to make sure it would not move when he put it down. His heart pounded furiously, as the couple in the lodge carried on, murmurring and laughing, and he had to call upon his spirit-protector to keep his legs from trembling.

  Finally, the blood ceased to run from the carcass of the dog, and Horseback let it slowly settle to the dirt. He rested in the shadow of a tree and watched Battle Scar’s lodge. He moved closer, walking to the next shadow as if he belonged in this village. He heard noises coming from Battle Scar’s lodge and knew the old chief was coupling with a woman. He waited, wondering what to do next. The spirits gave no answers, so he waited longer. He took up a position where he could watch the entry to Battle Scar’s lodge, yet could duck behind a deer hide lashed to a scaffold should anyone come out of the lodge. I will avenge you, sacred deer. There was also a small wood pile to crouch behind. He would wait here, and watch, and seek his chance.

  In time, the noises of the coupling stopped in the lodge. Not long afterward, Battle Scar spoke to the woman, and she quickly appeared at the entry to the lodge. Horseback ducked behind the hide of the sacred deer, which shielded him with its spirit-magic, as the woman went to the next lodge and entered it.

  Now Horseback waited. He would let Battle Scar sleep. Then he would watch the moon shadows move across the ground until the sleep of his enemy became the sleep of dark nothingness. He judged the angle of the moonlight and looked at the smoke hole of Battle Scar’s lodge. When the moonlight fell upon the floor of the lodge, it would be time to enter.

  As he waited, crouched behind a low stack of wood, he heard people occasionally moving through the village. Once, he saw a young warrior and a girl slip away together. They passed near the dog he had killed, but failed to see it in their haste to find a secret place. Watching them go, Horseback remembered his words in council, and thought it well that he no longer sought to kill all Na-vohnuh w
arriors to avenge ancient crimes. Perhaps that young warrior and the girl would make children, and perhaps they would leave the True Humans alone, and not need killing.

  Yet, one thing remained certain. Battle Scar needed killing. He had caused the death of Horseback’s mother. He had killed Horseback’s father with his own hands. He had attempted to defile Horseback’s sits-beside wife. He had ruined the finest war pony Horseback would ever ride. Battle Scar was an evil thing lower than a nonhuman two-legged. Lower than a no-legged. Lower than low.

  The moon moved into position, and Horseback crept to the entryway of the squatty enemy lodge. Red and white by day, it now looked black and gray. He found that Battle Scar’s woman had simply tossed the wolf-skin cover back over the doorway without pegging it fast. Horseback peeled it back as slowly as if it pained him to move it. When finally he could see the floor of the lodge, he slipped one foot in. He could hear Battle Scar’s breath, long and heavy.

  He ducked his head into the lodge, and pulled his other leg in, now replacing the wolf-skin cover. He waited for the spirits to give his eyes the power to see in the gloomy lodge. At last; he made out Battle Scar’s mouth, his lips hanging slack as he lay on his side. The night was warm. Only Battle Scar’s legs were covered.

  Horseback drew his knife. It had an iron blade long enough to reach a bear’s heart, and a handle of bone that fit his grip like a stick in the talon of an eagle. He remembered his father’s story. The story helped him fight the urge to cover the last three steps in a headlong pounce. Instead, he chose each footstep before he took it, at last standing over the sleeping body of his foe.

  His crouch settled like a fog, and then a joint in Horseback’s knee cracked. The eyes opened. Horseback’s palm covered the mouth as Battle Scar flinched. The blade of the knife pierced the bare chest, and he felt Battle Scar’s teeth sink into his palm as the hands clawed at him. Horseback withdrew the bloody knife and plunged it in again, trying to keep his weight atop the wild throes of the chief as he choked his own cry of pain in his throat.

  Quickly, the body of Battle Scar weakened, his heart pierced. The old warrior’s arms fell aside, yet he kept his teeth clenched deep in the flesh of Horseback’s palm. The pain made Horseback’s stomach wrench, but he called upon his powers and leaned his lips toward Battle Scar’s ear. Just when he knew the old chief was almost gone, he whispered, “Acaballo … Acaballo…”

  It came out like a hiss, and he knew Battle Scar would understand his name in Spanish. Still he waited. When the teeth loosened their hold on his palm, he fell back from the horrible bloody corpse and withdrew his knife.

  Now Horseback’s heart began to beat crazily, and he had to lie back on the floor of his dead enemy’s lodge to compose himself. As he lay there, he thought about all the ponies he had seen tied in the village. He remembered exactly where he had seen them, and thought about which ones he would steal first. His hand hurt badly, but he knew he could ignore it. Horseback had often endured more.

  Determined now, he rose and drew the single arrow from his quiver. With his good hand, he raised it above his head and stabbed it into the center of the lodge floor. He threw the wolf-skin flap aside and looked out. No one. He stepped into the night and went to the first pony. Grunting in the pony talk he had learned as a boy, he approached the animal and cut the stake rope tied to the forefoot. He moved silently away, knowing the pony would take some time discovering that he had been cut loose.

  He crept among the lodges and found the second pony, slicing through its rope with the bloody knife blade. Then he approached the third, and cut it loose as well. He moved like an owl to the fourth, then scanned the village, seeing just one pony left.

  He heard the first pony stamp and knew the animal had discovered his freedom. No longer did Horseback creep like a lion. He felt the power of the sacred deer in his heart and made long strides to the fifth and last horse. This horse shied, tripping as it reached the end of its rope, hitting on its shoulder with a thud. Someone grumbled in a nearby lodge. Horseback pulled up on the stake to free it, then pounced on the pony’s neck to keep the animal down. He cut the rawhide rope from the animal’s forefoot, and doubled it as he let the pony rise. Hooves scrambled all across the ground. Horseback hooked one arm over the pony’s neck and made the loop for the war bridle, which he forced into the pony’s mouth. As he swung onto the back of the dancing mount, he heard more voices, saw a skin fly aside from the doorway of a lodge.

  The pony was well trained, as he had expected from one staked in camp. Horseback raised a shrill cry of victory that burst loose like a trapped animal held in too long. He pounded through the village, gathering the ponies he had cut loose. Cries of men and women rose from the lodges, and many noises rolled together into one big sound.

  He pushed the good ponies toward the herd of loose ponies, determined now to have them all, so that he could not be pursued. One of the stolen animals stepped on his own stake rope and tripped, but Horseback knew the ropes would soon break short or fall off. An arrow pierced a lodge cover to one side, and he leaned lower, wishing this enemy pony wore the loop in which he could rest his arm. No choice now but to ride. Ride!

  The pony was good, helping him gather the others, and they burst into the bean field as a musket shot erupted from behind. It only made the horses run faster, and they galloped into the herd of loose mounts. Now everything stampeded up the river valley, and Horseback sat upright, his arms raised in triumph. He had only to make it beyond the scouts, and he was free.

  He remembered the place where he had seen the young warrior smoking his pipe, and thought perhaps he should have killed this scout to create an escape route. Yet, he felt powerful now, and knew the spirits would shield him. He saw Smoker come out of the timber, the moonlight a dull glint on his musket. He thundered by, a clear target, as the warrior shouldered the weapon. He thought about Trotter, and his gun. How long would it take to latch back the snake-thing and pull the trigger?

  The spirits told him how long it would take. Horseback grabbed the mane of the stolen pony, slid off on the side away from the young scout. At a full gallop, he held the mane and let both legs swing forward alongside the churning hooves of the pony. His moccasins hit the dirt as the musket fired. He heard the ball whistle, and the speed of the pony launched his body backward and upward. Holding tight to the mane, his legs spread and he landed behind the withers, solid, like the handshake of Spaniards.

  Now he laughed at the useless gunshots from far behind. He was thinking that young Smoker was probably fearing Battle Scar would have him put to death, and this made Horseback laugh harder, for Battle Scar himself was dead. Dead! Killed in his own lodge with the name of Acaballo hissing in his ears! They would tell the story in times to come, around the fires of the storytellers, in the winter lodges of the elders. He had taken all the ponies. All the ponies!

  He screamed a war cry—part lion, part stallion, part red-tailed hawk—and felt the spirit of Medicine-Coat possess the pony he now rode. Hooves thundered like the roaring fires of the sun. Ahead of him lay a long journey to the lodges of his people, but that would only give him time to search his heart. He must prepare his talk for the gathering that would celebrate his return.

  Already, Horseback knew how to begin. He would look upon the joyful faces of his people and say:

  “On the day of my birth, a pony circled my lodge. This was not just any pony, but the very first my people ever saw. The elders told me that it tasted pretty good…”

  By Mike Blakely

  from Tom Doherty Associates

  The Last Chance

  Shortgrass Song

  Too Long at the Dance

  The Snowy Range Gang

  Dead Reckoning

  Spanish Blood

  “Blakely’s writing is crisp, enticing, and underscored with depth.”

  —American Cowboy

  “The only formula here is talent. Blakely is a superb storyteller in the gritty tradition of Elmer Kelton and Benjamin Capps.”


  —Books of the Southwest on Too Long at the Dance

  “He is a gifted storyteller.… Blakely has a remarkable eye and feel for physical action and a striking ability to render the swift blur of violent confrontation.”

  —Texas Books in Review

  “Grabs the reader from the first page. His characters are interesting, real, and believable.”

  —Don Coldsmith, author of The Spanish Bit Saga

  “Plenty of good-guy-bad-guy action, a poignant love story, and an unerring sense of contemporary detail make this historical novel sing.”

  —Texas Monthly on Too Long at the Dance

  “Blakely brings a fresh and wonderful new voice to the Western. Readers will hear more from him, and all of it will be good.”

  —Norman Zollinger, author of Not of War Only

  “Mike Blakely does it all with Too Long at the Dance.… A storyteller to rank with the best.”

  —Jory Sherman, author of Grass Kingdom

  “An exciting, suspenseful novel with well-fleshed characters and several surprises.… The gunfights and breaking in of mustangs are breathtaking.”

  —Library Journal on The Snowy Range Gang

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  COMMANCHE DAWN

  Copyright © 1998 by Mike Blakely

  All rights reserved.

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor.com

  Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN: 0-812-54833-7

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-23738

  First edition: October 1998