The Floating Outift 36

by J. T. Edson

  Outside another tipi a tehnap had worked with unwavering attention. He had been packing pages ripped from a thick, looted Montgomery-Ward catalogue into the saucer-shaped interior of a round shield. Beyond the circle of dwellings, tuivitsis and tuineps—boys not yet old enough to be classed as warriors—practiced with weapons, or at riding. They had been concentrating the latter on handling a bow from horseback and towards picking up a dismounted or injured companion at full gallop.

  Taken individually, the various activities might have been harmless. Put together, they suggested that the brave-hearts were planning a foray in strength. It might be launched against the white settlements beyond the Tule and Palo Duro country. Or the expedition could be aimed at an objective much closer to hand.

  There was only one place in the latter category. The town of Hell.

  While the rest of the party had headed for their respective tipis, or to leave their mounts with the horse-herders beyond the camp, Wolf Runner had escorted the Kid to the home of the pariaivo, the senior, or ‘peace’ chief of the band. The Texan’s presence in the camp had attracted some attention, but none of the people had shown more than a casual interest in him. Certainly they had not displayed open hostility at the sight of a white man in their midst. Ten Bears had been courteous and had offered the visitor hospitality. As the grandson of a famous war leader, and a name warrior in his own right, Cuchilo rated a dance in his honor. So the invitation had been made and accepted.

  Studying the scene before him, the Kid wondered if maybe he was making a mistake in trusting the Kweharehnuh. The faces of the onlookers showed no emotion as he passed through their ranks. Yet he sensed an undercurrent of restlessness which was not entirely caused by the prospect of a celebration. On the surface, however, everything seemed normal. Twelve chiefs and war leaders, all wearing their finest clothes, formed a semicircle around Ten Bears. The woman standing at the right of the pariaivo could only be Pohawe.

  Although Ten Bears was nominally a ‘peace’ chief, responsible for the administration of the band’s domestic and social affairs rather than being a leader in battle, he gave evidence of his earlier marital prowess. In his right hand, he held a seven-foot long bois d’arc war lance with a spear-pointed, razor-sharp head and a cluster of eagle’s feathers at its butt. Only the bravest of the Nemenuh carried a lance. Ten Bears, as the Kid knew, was one of the very few warriors to have been permitted the honor of retaining his weapon after his retirement from active, fighting life.

  Thickset, though running a little to fat, the pariaivo was an impressive figure. There was nothing in his appearance to suggest that he might be a drunken degenerate, sucked into an alliance with the white man by a craving for whiskey. He was a tough old Comanche who had never seen the boundaries of a reservation. In his attire, only the gunbelt about his middle, with its holstered Army Colt and sheathed Green River fighting knife, was of paleface origin.

  From the pariaivo, the Kid turned his eyes to the medicine woman. Tall and slim for a Nemenuh, Pohawe had short-cropped curly black hair with the part-line, trimmed down the middle, accentuated by vermilion. Her features looked more mulatto or quadroon than Comanche, for all their traditional adornment. Red lines ran above and below her eyelids, crossing at the corners. The insides of her ears were colored bright red and a red-orange crescent had been carefully marked upon each cheek. Numerous bracelets and necklaces attested to her wealth as did the rest of her clothing. She wore a soft, pliable, muted-yellow buckskin blouse and skirt, covered with intricate beading designs and carrying luxurious fringes on the elbow-long sleeves and calf level hem. The joining of the blouse and skirt was concealed beneath a coyote-skin peplum bearing several geometric medallions of silver and trimmed with numerous bead-covered leather thongs. The moccasins on her feet had cost somebody much time and labor, being well made and intricately decorated with still more beads.

  Going closer, the Kid was conscious of the medicine woman’s eyes raking him from head to toe. He was bareheaded and had donned a clean shirt and Levi’s for the occasion. Carrying his Winchester in its boot across his left arm, he had his gunbelt buckled on. As a Nemenuh, he could—and was expected to—be armed when attending such a function. His saddle, bridle, bedroll and Stetson had been left in Wolf Runner’s tipi, as he was classed as the chief’s guest.

  Pohawe’s eyes left the Kid. Following the direction in which they gazed, he saw two tehnap in the forefront of the onlookers. They had buffalo-hide robes draped across their shoulders, but underneath wore nothing except their breechclouts and moccasins. Each held a tomahawk and a round shield. More significantly, they had war paint on their faces and torsos.

  To the Kid, it seemed as if a message passed between Pohawe and the pair of braves; although no words had actually been spoken. However, the social courtesies had to be carried out. He came to a halt and raised his right hand in the palm forward salute which was also a sign of peace. As a guest, it was his place to speak first—especially in the presence of older, respected members of his host’s band.

  ‘Greetings, medicine woman; Paruwa Semenho, friend of my grandfather, Long Walker of the Quick Stingers; and chiefs of the Kweharehnuh,’ the Kid said, in the slow-tongued accent of a Pehnane. ‘I come in peace to your camp.’

  Apart from the speaker being dressed and armed like a white man, there was nothing unusual in his arrival. Any Comanche warrior could expect to be made welcome in the village of another band. A noted war leader like Long Walker would assume that his only grandson was obliged to pay a courtesy visit to the chief of the Kweharehnuh while in the Palo Duro.

  ‘Greetings to you, Cuchilo, grandson of my old friend,’ Ten Bears answered. ‘You will sit with us and eat?’

  ‘My thanks to you, pariaivo,’ the Kid assented, adopting the half-mocking, half-respectful tone with which a lusty, active young tehnap addressed a person who might rank high in social prominence, but who was—in the warrior’s opinion—no longer of great importance.

  A grin twisted at Ten Bears’ lips as he caught the inflexion in the Kid’s voice. Cuchilo might now live with the white people, but he still thought, spoke and acted like a Comanche.

  ‘Did you also come in peace when you fought with the blue-coat soldiers against Kills Something and braves from this band?’ Pohawe demanded, speaking loudly enough for her words to reach the ears of the assembled people.

  ‘I did,’ the Kid confirmed. ‘They were my friends and I was riding with them. So I fought.’

  There would have been no point in the Kid trying to conceal the part he had played during the fighting in which the war leader, Kills Something, had died. The survivors of the affray—which had been a prelude to the floating outfit’s assignment in Hell—were certain to have told the story of their defeat. It was inconceivable that they would have omitted to mention the man who had played a major role in their downfall. The Comanche had admiration for a shrewd, brave and capable fighting man; but nothing except contempt for a liar.

  ‘You say you are Nemenuh,’ Pohawe went on, clearly directing her words to the crowd as much as to the Kid. ‘And yet you helped the soldier-coats to kill our braves.’

  ‘I am a man of two people,’ the Kid countered. ‘And, as I was riding a war trail with white men, I fought alongside them.’

  ‘No man can be loyal to two peoples, Cuchilo,’ Pohawe warned.

  ‘Who are you loyal to, medicine woman?’ the Kid challenged.

  From the expression on Pohawe’s face, the barb had gone home. The Kid felt that he had scored a point of dubious value. As the daughter of an unimportant, not-too-successful warrior and his mulatto captive-wife, she had risen high in the band’s society. There were many who resented her position of influence. So she objected to any drawing of attention to her mixed blood. Even if she had not been the Texan’s enemy before, she was now.

  ‘Some of our brave-hearts were killed!’ Pohawe gritted.

  ‘And some of the men I rode with,’ the Kid reminded her. ‘They all died w
ith honor and as true warriors.’

  This time the Kid knew that he had made a telling point. Like all Indians, the Comanches set great store by a man dying well and with honor.

  ‘My son died in that fight, Cuchilo,’ one of the ‘old man’ chiefs remarked. ‘You had dealt with him as a tehnap with a tuivitsi earlier.’

  ‘I remember him,’ the Kid admitted, thinking of the young warrior whom he had taught a lesson in manners. ‘He died well, attacking us and helped others to escape without hurt.’

  That was not entirely the truth, the tuivitsi having been stupidly reckless before meeting his end. However, it helped an old warrior’s grief to hear such words. The Kid had made a friend.

  ‘Those two men, Charging Wapiti and Came With The Thunder, had a brother at the fight,’ Pohawe announced, indicating the pair of warriors to whom she had signaled on the Kid’s arrival. ‘They claim you for his death. It is their right to kill you.’

  ‘It is my right to die fighting,’ the Kid pointed out. ‘I am a Pehnane Dog Soldier and I have never gone against my oath to my war lodge. I am sworn to die with a weapon in my hand.’

  ‘A fair fight, Ten Bears!’ boomed Wolf Runner, who had stood at the Kid’s side through the conversation. ‘Cuchilo came here as my guest. If Charging Wapiti and Came With The Thunder want blood, let them come singly.’

  Going by the low rumble of approval which rose from the onlookers, the war leader’s words had their support. A pariaivo was always a shrewd politician and, as such, Ten Bears knew better than to fly in the face of public opinion.

  ‘A fair fight it will be,’ the ‘peace’ chief declared. ‘What weapons will you use, Charging Wapiti?’

  Shrugging off his robe, the taller, heavier of the pair stalked forward. He raised the shield and tomahawk into the air.

  ‘These!’

  That was caution, for the brothers had heard of Cuchilo’s deadly skill with a rifle.

  ‘I’m sorry for your brother’s death, tehnap,’ the Kid declared, handing his rifle to Wolf Runner. ‘You have no guns, so neither will I.’

  With that, the Texan unfastened and removed his shirt. Passing it to the war leader, he untied the pigging thongs holding the tip of his holster to his thigh and unbuckled the gunbelt. Sliding out the bowie knife, he let Wolf Runner take the belt. As the Kid was about to move forward, the ‘old man’ chief who had asked for information rose. Advancing, he offered the shield which had been resting on his knees.

  ‘Take this, Cuchilo,’ the chief suggested, ignoring the disapproving scowl which Pohawe directed at him.

  ‘My thanks,’ answered the Kid, conscious that he had been paid a great honor. ‘May it serve me as well as it always served you.’

  Made from the shoulder hide of an old bull buffalo, heated and steamed until contracted to the required thickness, then pounded and rubbed with a smooth stone to remove every wrinkle, the shield was about two feet in diameter. The space between the separate layers of hide had been packed tight with feathers, hair, or possibly paper, which would deaden the impact from arrows or blows by other weapons. A pliant buckskin cover had been stretched over the convex outer face and laced into position by thongs which passed through holes around the edges. A dozen or so long, flowing feathers were secured to the rim of the outer sheath; and not merely for decoration. Also affixed were the teeth from a Texas flat-headed grizzly bear, indicating that its owner was a mighty hunter. The painted scalps below them told that he was also a famous warrior.

  While the chief was making his loan to the Kid, Came With The Thunder discarded his robe and joined his elder brother. The tuivitsi whispered in the tehnap’s ear, glancing towards the Texan. At first Charging Wapiti appeared to disagree with what was said, then he nodded and gave some advice. Having done so, the tehnap advanced a few strides as if eagerly waiting for the duel to commence.

  ‘I don’t want this fight, Paruwa Semenho, chiefs and people of the Kweharehnuh,’ the Kid announced, as the chief returned to his place in the semicircle. ‘But it has been forced on me and I will do all I can to win.’

  With that, the Texan slipped his left arm through the two stout rawhide loops fixed to the concave inner side of the shield and drew them to either side of his elbow. Moving his arm a few times, he tested the weight and balance of the shield. He gripped the bowie knife in the fashion of a white man, or a Mexican, with the blade extended ahead of his thumb and forefinger.

  Experienced eyes took in the way the concave swoop of the false edge met the convex curve of the cutting surface, exactly in the center of the eleven and a half inch long, two and a half inch wide clip-pointed blade. That was a fighting knife second to none and its owner handled it like a master.

  One question was in every warrior’s mind. Would the unfamiliar shield be a liability or an asset to Cuchilo?

  ‘You insist on your right, Charging Wapiti?’ Ten Bears asked formally.

  ‘We do,’ the tehnap agreed. ‘While that one lives, our brother cannot rest easily in the Land Of The Good Hunting.’

  ‘You hear, Cuchilo?’ the pariaivo inquired.

  ‘I hear, Paruwa Semenho,’ the Kid answered. ‘And I say to all who can hear, Ten Bears is not to blame whichever way this fight comes out.’

  While speaking, the Kid had turned to the chiefs. He saw Ten Bears give a nod of satisfaction and approval. The fight that was to come might be justified under Comanche law, but it was well that there could be no cause for complaint from Long Walker. Maybe the Pehnane were eating the white brother’s beef on the reservation, but the Dog Soldiers had long since established a reputation for being quick to avenge any insult or injury to other members of their lodge. The Kid had absolved Ten Bears of all blame in the affair.

  Swinging to meet the first of his attackers, the Kid saw that they had separated. Charging Wapiti crouched slightly, as if preparing to attack. Loud into the silence that had fallen rang a Kweharehnuh scalp-yell. It did not come from the tehnap’s lips. Instead, the younger brother sprang forward from the Kid’s right side.

  Although Came With The Thunder had been supposed to be launching an unsuspected, surprise attack, he had committed an error in tactics. Young and inexperienced, he could not resist the temptation to give his war cry before charging at his enemy.

  There was no time for the Kid to gain the feel of the shield. Fortunately it was of the same general size, shape and weight as those he had been trained to use and with which he had practiced when visiting his grandfather. Pure fighting instinct triggered off an almost automatic response to the assault.

  Pivoting to meet the charge, the Kid saw the tuivitsi’s tomahawk hissing towards his head. Throwing up the shield, he realized that it had gone too high and was too perpendicular to cause the blow to strike at an angle and glance off. There was no time to make alterations—and no need. The sharp cutting edge of the war axe thudded against the center of the shield. Meeting the flint-hard, yet resilient cover, it rebounded harmlessly.

  Like a flash, the Kid swooped his knife around for a low thrust at Came With The Thunder’s body. The tuivitsi dropped his shield deftly, deflecting the bowie knife downwards and to its user’s left. Allowing the bottom edge of the shield to slide along the back of the blade, until halted by the outwards turn of the guard’s recurved quillon, the Kid angled his weapon upwards. Doing so locked the shield between the back of the blade and the quillon. Helped by the leverage of the quillon’s inwards bend against the lower phalange of his forefinger, the Kid raised the blade and shield.

  A sudden reversal of direction drew the bowie knife free when it was level with the tuivitsi’s shoulder. Shock twisted momentarily at Came With The Thunder’s face as realization of his predicament struck him. Nor, if the exclamations which arose on all sides were anything to go on, had the precariousness of his situation escaped the onlookers’ attention.

  Down and to the left flashed the bowie knife, its cutting edge tearing a shallow gash across the tuivitsi’s exposed chest. Gasping in pain, Came
With The Thunder fell back a pace and left himself wide open. Even if doing so would have availed him anything—for the youngster was pledged to kill him and would have continued with the attempts to carry out the oath—the Kid could not have halted his movements. Inherited, age-old instincts guided what was practically a subconsciously directed reflex action. At the lowest point of its stroke, the bowie knife altered its course. Coming up, it raked the false edge—honed as sharp as the cutting surface itself—to its target. Blood burst from the terrible wound as the bowie knife laid the tuivitsi’s throat open to the bone.

  Spinning around, dropping his tomahawk and allowing the shield to slip unheeded from his left arm, Came With The Thunder sprawled face down on the ground in front of the chiefs. Even with his blood racing in the savage exultation of having emerged victorious from a primitive conflict, the Kid did not growl out the coup claim, ‘A:he.’ No Comanche would think of counting coup if circumstances forced him to strike down another member of the Nemenuh.

  Having watched his brother tumble, spewing out life’s blood on to the turf underfoot, Charging Wapiti attacked. There was no warning this time. He moved in silence, but was not entirely unexpected. The tuivitsi’s trick had warned the Kid what to expect. From delivering his killing stroke, the Texan whirled to face his second assailant. One glance told him that he would be meeting a far different, more dangerous antagonist. Instead of duplicating his brother’s wild, announced rush, the tehnap glided forward in the manner of an experienced warrior. He would not allow anger, or over-confidence, to lure him into rashness.