by J. T. Edson
‘You did it, Jeff?’ Dusty said.
‘I lost half of my patrol,’ Manners replied. ‘Was it worth it?’
‘You saw how those Waw’ai could fight,’ Dusty answered. ‘And they’re not the toughest Comanche band. It’s better to have peace with folk who fight that good.’
‘I’d best start work,’ Manners sighed, not commenting on Dusty’s remark.
‘Wait for Captain Connel’s troop to help you,’ Dusty suggested. ‘They’re coming back now.’
After following the scattering Waw’ai for a time, the second troop of soldiers came back to the relay station. At the same time Goodnight walked over from where he and the Comanche halted the recovered horses.
‘Long Walker and the others called it right on where we’d find the Waw’ai stock,’ he said. ‘And they sure haven’t forgotten how to handle themselves in a raid.’
‘Did you have any trouble, Uncle Charlie?’ asked Dusty.
‘Nope. Sidewinder only left four bucks guarding the horses and they never had a chance to make a fight.’
‘Then we’ve got all the loot back, except for maybe a few guns.’
‘Sure, Dusty.’
Manners stood with Captain Connel and the soldiers mingled in talking groups. It seemed that the second troop’s members praised the manner in which Long Walker and the other Comanche chiefs guided them across the range, for some of the hostility died away among the group which had held the relay station.
‘I’ve left men out on the range, gathering the lances that the Waw’ai are discarding, Dusty,’ Colonel said. ‘Why’d they take them from Przewlocki’s men in the first place, if they aimed to throw them away?’
‘Took them to show they’d whipped the white soldier lance carriers,’ the Kid explained. ‘And threw them away to save weight on the hosses’ backs—and because they figured those lances brought bad luck.’
‘They could be right at that,’ Connel grunted. ‘They sure didn’t do Przewlocki’s men any good at all. I’ve told Jeff Manners to rest his men and mine’ll start the cleaning up here. Unless you figure on following the Waw’ai up, Dusty.’
‘How about it, Lon?’ asked Dusty.
‘You could try,’ drawled the Kid. ‘But they’ll not gather together again for days and won’t stop running until they’re back with the rest of the band. I’d bet that the Waw’ai come in after this. Or would if we could get Sidewinder. While he’s out, if he can get his medicine back, they’ll never settle down.’
‘Then we’d best try to get him,’ Dusty said.
‘We can try,’ agreed the Kid doubtfully. ‘Tell me which set of tracks to follow and I’ll make a go at it.’
‘Maybe he’s gone back to the camp aiming to collect his mother,’ Dusty guessed, ‘From what you told me about him, he always stuck pretty close to her.’
‘It’s worth trying,’ the Kid admitted. ‘Let’s get our hosses and go see.’
‘Is that all right with you, Tom?’ Dusty asked, looking at Connel.
‘Go to it, Dusty. Do you want any men?’
‘We’ll handle it ourselves,’ Dusty replied, glancing at his two friends and Goodnight. ‘Coming, Uncle Charlie?’
‘I figured to take those horses to their owners and make sure that the owners know who got them back,’ Goodnight replied.
Knowing the respect in which most Texans held Goodnight, Dusty could see that his uncle’s decision was the correct one. If anybody could smooth down the hostility caused by Sidewinder’s raids, or ensure that it went to the right source, Goodnight stood the best chance of doing it.
‘You might run into some of the Waw’ai,’ Connel warned.
‘They’ll likely not be wanting to fight any more,’ Dusty answered. ‘But in case they do, we’ll ask the chiefs to come with us. Maybe they’ll be able to talk any Waw’ai we meet out of fighting.’
‘Or help us with the fighting if talk doesn’t work,’ drawled Mark.
On having Dusty’s suggestion put to them, the chiefs agreed with considerable enthusiasm to going along. In fact, judging by the way they fingered their weapons, Dusty reckoned that the chiefs hoped for a meeting if it gave them a chance at one final fight before going on to the reservation to live a boring, peaceful life.
The ride proved uneventful, with no sign of Waw’ai and nothing of interest happening. At noon the following day, the men arrived at the site of the village and found that only one tipi remained. Recognizing the tipi, a cold, hard smile twisted the Kid’s lips and he could have made, a mighty good guess at what lay ahead of them, even before his keen nostrils caught the unmistakable smell of death which came from Sidewinder’s home.
Drawing up his bandana over his nose, Dusty slipped from the paint and approached the tipi. He lifted the flap and stepped inside, peering through the gloom and not liking what he saw. In the centre of the tipi a well-dressed elderly woman’s body sprawled twisted and contorted, its face a hideous mask of pain and horror. Close by the body lay a medicine bag, its contents scattered around as if the woman up-ended it in an effort to find something that might help her.
‘It’s Fire Dancer,’ said the Kid from the tipi door.
‘She looks like she’s been poisoned,’ Dusty replied, having twice seen poison victims and knowing the signs.
‘Must have been something she ate,’ answered the Kid.
Dusty turned and studied his friend’s face. When the Kid’s voice took on that innocent note and he looked as saintly as a choirboy trying to win a good-conduct prize, he knew more than he admitted about the subject in question. Long experience had taught Dusty that questioning the Kid at such a time was a waste of time and so he did not bother.
‘What about the rest of them?’ Dusty asked, walking from the tipi and nodding towards the deserted camp-site. ‘Where’ve they gone?’
‘Back to their people most likely,’ the Kid replied, glancing at his grandfather who went to the tipi and looked inside. ‘When the women saw Fire Dancer dying the same way that folks who she cursed went under, they’d figure that her medicine had gone right back on her and pulled out afore it got them too.’
‘You came here, Cuchilo?’ asked Long Walker.
‘Yes, tawk,’ admitted the Kid. ‘I found how she killed and laid a trap.’
‘It is well,’ the chief said and let the tipi’s door flap fall. ‘Sidewinder has not been here.’
‘He left no sign of it if he has,’ agreed the Kid, ‘Shall we wait to see if he comes?’
‘No. After what has happened, I think the chiefs will listen and sign the treaty. Even the ones who waited to hear of Sidewinder will know that he has failed and be willing to make peace.’
Mounting their horses, the men rode away from the death camp. Dusty turned in his saddle and looked back at the tipi.
He wondered what, if anything, the Kid knew about Fire Dancer’s death. One thing was for sure, Fire Dancer’s death was for the best; whether the poison had been administered accidentally or with deliberate intent. With her gone, the white men who opposed the making of the treaty had lost a powerful and dangerous ally. Dusty doubted if Sidewinder would deal with white men on a friendly, or co-operative basis without his mother forcing him to do so. A major threat to the chance of making a lasting peace lay dead in that tipi and Dusty felt disinclined to inquire too closely in how she came to die.
Apart from the Kweharehnuh, who only the most optimistic observers had expected to come in, the majority of the Comanche people felt reconciled to making peace and living on a reservation. It seemed that only Sidewinder among the leaders might spoil the signing of the treaty and, with his band demoralized, scattered or dead, he should prove less of a threat than he had only three days before. Dusty could not think how the chief might accomplish anything more.
On returning to the Fort, Dusty found that Temple Houston had not been wasting time in his absence. The lawyer obtained permission to visit Bristow, the captured whiskey peddler, and at first had no success with the man,
So Houston made a plan and put it into operation. On the night that Dusty left, a shot through the window almost silenced Bristow—although, as Houston fired it, the man was in no great danger. Scared by what he regarded as a narrow escape, and believing that the people who hired him aimed to take the easy way out of their difficulties regarding him. Bristow fell eagerly into Houston’s suggestion that he saved his neck by talking. While he knew little, Bristow told Houston the name of his contact and the only person he had met concerned with the plot. The peddler gave Houston a lead which subsequently brought about the arrest of several members of the ring involved in trying to disrupt the treaty council.
That evening, a further piece of good news arrived. After some discussion, the assembled chiefs of the Comanche decided to meet the white members of the treaty council with a view to making the final arrangements for signing the treaty.
Everything seemed all set for the successful conclusion of the council and the beginning of an era of peace between the majority of the Comanche Nation and the people of Texas.
Chapter Sixteen – The Kid Achieves A Boyhood Ambition
The day of the treaty signing could not have been better. Overhead the sun shone brightly and only a light breeze stirred the air. General Handiman and the Congressional Committee sat at a table with all the papers before them, faced by the senior chief from each Comanche band that aimed to sign. To the right, formed up and wearing their best uniforms, sat three companies of cavalry and on the left of the table gathered a large number of Comanche men, women and children all dressed to the height of fashion,
Every detail had been thrashed out in meetings, with the Kid stood by to act as interpreter for the Comanches and at last the big moment had arrived. In a matter of seconds the treaty would be signed and a start at a lasting peace made.
Even as Handiman reached for the pen which lay ready for use, two shots rang out. Every eye turned in the direction of the shooter, looking out over the range and up a broken, bush-dotted slope. Six Indians, one of them sporting the war bonnet of a chief, sat their horses on the top of the slope.
‘Sidewinder!’ growled Long Walker as the war bonnet chief waved a Winchester carbine over his head.
‘Hey, Comanches!’ yelled Sidewinder. ‘What frightened dogs are you to let the white men force you to make peace? Who rides with me to live the old way?’
‘Captain Connel, take men and—’ Handiman began.
‘Hold it, General!’ interrupted the Kid! ‘That’s not the way to handle it.’
‘Damn it, Kid,’ Handiman snorted. ‘We can’t let him get away with it, even if I have to send all three companies after him.’
‘And how’d that look to the Comanche down here?’ asked the Kid. ‘Sidewinder’s likely only got those five jaspers with him. They’re here to bust up the council, or die—and they won’t die easy. Happen you send men against them in that broken stuff, they’ll kill off plenty afore you get them. And while the fighting’s going on it’ll only take a wrong move on either side down here to spark off a shooting fuss.’
All of which Handiman could see plainly enough when he paused for a moment. Sidewinder might have lost his medicine, but could easily regain it and pick up a following if the assembled tehnap and tuivitsi saw his small band inflicting heavy losses on the Army. And they stood a good chance of inflicting those losses, for the nature of the ground favored the Indians.
‘What can we do?’ Handiman growled, knowing that doing nothing would be as disastrous as sending forward soldiers.
For a moment the Kid did not reply, but his eyes went to the ink pots on the table. While one contained blue ink, the other held red ink of a thick kind to be used in making the Indians’ marks.
‘I reckon it’s long gone time that me ’n’ Sidewinder settled up old scores,’ the Kid said and laid his rifle on the table.
Standing among the other honored guests at a distance behind the table, Dusty and Mark watched as the Kid peeled off his shirt. They exchanged glances and moved forward for they guessed at what the Kid aimed to do and wanted to know if they might help in any way. While acting as interpreter for the Comanches, the Kid wore his Indian clothes and retained his armament. No Indian ever expected to have to lay down his arms at a peace council, that would be a sign he did not trust the other party involved.
Watched by the amazed white members of the crowd, the Kid stripped off his leggings and retained only moccasins, breechclout and gunbelt. A low mutter ran through the assembled Pehnane ranks, echoed by such of the other Comanches who knew the ways of the Quick Stingers, as the Kid poured red ink on to his palm and made the imprint of his hand on his chest. A quick grab raised his rifle from the table and he ran to where Manners stood holding the General’s horse.
‘Pukutsi!’ roared the Kid, leapfrog mounting over the horse’s rump and snatching the reins from Manners’ amazed hand.
‘Pukutsi!’ boomed back the voices of the Pehnane as they watched the Kid send the horse leaping forward in the direction of Sidewinder’s party.
Sidewinder watched everything from where he sat his horse on the rim. While he had not seen the Kid since they were both boys, the chief knew that only one white man would act in such a manner. A snarl of fury left Sidewinder as he pointed at the charging Texan.
‘Kill him.’ he ordered.
Knowing that the only way to halt a man riding Pukutsi in the Pehnane fashion was in the way their chief commanded, three of the braves sent their horses leaping forward to meet the Kid. Two of them carried rifles and the third held a bow to which he notched an arrow as his mount hit a full gallop.
Up swung the Kid’s Winchester as he rode with the reins lashed up and hanging over the horse’s neck, steering it with his knees. He sighted and fired, tumbling one of the rifle armed braves from the saddle. Levering home another bullet, the Kid changed his aim and saw the second brave lining a rifle at him. Flame licked from the Kid’s ‘yellow boy’ as the brave fired at him. The Kid felt his mount jerk as the bullet struck it, heard its squeal and sensed it collapsing under him, Before the horse’s body crumpled and hit the ground, the Kid had left its saddle and landed on his feet with a cat-like agility born in him and improved on by long training. While landing he saw that his second shot had taken effect, for the other rifle-armed brave lay sprawled on the ground.
That left the third brave, and to the Kid’s way of thinking the most dangerous. Armed with a bow and showing every sign of being a master in its use, the brave tore nearer. He ignored the fate of his companions, concentrating on the Kid with awesome intensity and determination to kill. Tense and ready, the Kid saw the bow’s string released and the arrow spring towards him. Timing his move perfectly, he swung the Winchester and its barrel deflected the arrow’s shaft. A quick swiveling movement swung the rifle back into line slanting it up as the Kid prepared to leap aside and avoid being ridden down. He had no time to raise the rifle to his shoulder and fired from the hip. A flat-nosed .44 bullet drove in under the brave’s jaw and burst out of the top of his head. Darting aside, the Kid evaded the horse and its lifeless rider crashed almost at his feet.
So busy had the Kid been in handling his first trio of attackers that he did not notice the remaining pair of Sidewinder’s companions approaching. They came on foot, one carrying an Army Colt and the other wielding a war club. Firing on the run, the Colt’s user lacked the ability to aim accurately and missed. Before he could cock his revolver, he paid the penalty. Still held hip-high, the Kid’s rifle spat and its bullet tore into the Waw’ai’s left breast and tumbled him backwards.
The last brave charged in from the Kid’s right side, so close that there. would be no time to turn the rifle. Instead the Kid hurled his Winchester at the other’s head. Throwing up his left arm, the Waw’ai knocked the rifle aside and his other hand swung the war club at the Kid. The two pound flint head—six inches long, with a width of three inch at one end and tapering to two inches at the other, secured by green rawhide, which shrunk and dried a
lmost to the consistency of iron, to a sixteen inch wooden shaft—whistled through the air. Swiftly the Kid twisted his body, bending it under the arc of the club’s head. While doing so, the Kid drew his bowie knife and swung a wicked backhand slash. Razor sharp steel bit into Waw’ai’s belly, laying it wide open. A scream left his lips, the war club dropping from his fingers and his hands clawed down at the terrible gash in his body. Staggering a few steps, the Waw’ai sank to his knees and fell forward, writhing, on his face.
A bullet tore over the Kid’s head and he flung himself forward in a rolling dive that carried him into cover. There had been no time to collect his rifle and he drew the old Dragoon as he landed. Peering cautiously around the rock behind which he landed, the Kid saw no sign of Sidewinder. Clearly the chief retained sufficient respect for his old enemy’s shooting ability to take no chances.
Rising, the Kid darted from cover to cover up the slope. He went fast but no shots came his way. Not for a moment did he think that Sidewinder had fled. While the chief might not relish a fight, he could not avoid one if he hoped to show his face among the Comanche again. Sidewinder and the last of his followers came to the treaty council in a desperate bid to regain their lost medicine and so must be willing to die trying. Sidewinder knew that and hid somewhere, hoping for a chance to finish the Kid. If he did so, there might be braves willing to rally to him, enough to ruin the council.
Coming to a halt on the slope, the Kid stood erect and looked around him.
‘No Father!’ he roared in Pehnane Comanche. ‘Come and fight, lame dog. This is no time to run as you did when we last met. Show yourself and I’ll kill you as my father killed Bitter Root.’
The vicious crack of the chief’s carbine came after the Kid’s words, every one of which had been spoken as a deadly insult. To call a name-warrior by the title he held as a child was bad enough, but using the name of a dead father offered an even greater insult.