Ride the Wind

by Lucia St. Clair Robson

  "What do you need privacy for, Zeke? Do it where you stand." The men were tired and irritable and nervous. But they were grateful for even the brief rest. They heard a scuffle and a rustling, and everyone took aim at the spot where Smith had disappeared.

  "Hey, boys, look what I found." Smith was a hulking man. His belly hung over the waist of his pantaloons, and his chest strained the filthy cords that served as suspenders. But he grunted with the effort as he pulled the body of the Comanche woman behind him, his free hand twined in her braids as though hauling on a rope.

  Deer lay panting where he dropped her, her eyes sullen behind the pain. Her knee had been blasted and her arm was broken, the bone jutting through purple skin.

  Before anyone could stop him, Smith kicked her hard in the ribs with his iron-patched boots, breaking a few more bones. Then he drove the lance between her eyes, pinning her to the ground like an insect specimen. She twitched and spasmed, then lay still, her eyes open and staring at the sky. Noah spurred his horse and grabbed Smith's knife arm as he was about to take her hair. The two men glared at each other, and Noah began to worry about whether his men would support him. Finally Smith backed off. They could hear him muttering as he rode along behind.

  Ezekial Smith wasn't bright, and he wasn't easy to get along with, but Noah knew that in this case, many of the men agreed with him. She was only an Injun, after all. And a scalp was a souvenir to brag about to the folks back home.

  "McCulloch wants a live Comanche. He wants to ask him some questions. You boys remember that." And Smithwick tried to ignore the looks that passed among his men.

  As night fell, most of the men walked their weary horses toward their isolated homesteads, some close by, some a day or two away. They melted silently into the trees and copses of the tangled river bottoms. Many of them had been trailing the Comanche army almost a week, and they were ready to quit. Only a few kept doggedly in pursuit, and most of those were Rangers.

  Ben McCulloch watched the Texas volunteers lead their extra animals loaded with the abandoned Linnville loot. There was no use trying to recover it, and no one even suggested it. On the rolling lawn of Big Prairie, the Tonkawa were celebrating the victory around roaring fires. McCulloch had ridden back to talk to them. There was still something he had to know. He had a sullen Comanche woman with him, a prisoner who could give him the information he needed. He searched out Chief Placido as he was enjoying a late dinner.

  "Chief, ask this woman who was in charge of the Comanche war party."

  Placido relayed the question. "Potsana Quoip."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Potsana means buffalo."

  "And Quoip?"

  Placido's hands spoke eloquently. The woman made an obscene gesture in the vicinity of her groin, as though a man were urinating.

  "She say him name Buffalo Pizzle."

  "Buffalo Penis?"

  "Maybe so. I know Potsana Quoip. Brave man."

  "Is he still alive?"

  "Woman doesn't know. Maybe dead. Maybe alive." Placido was obviously eager to get back to his meal, and McCulloch rode off, wondering what to do with his prisoner. Around him the bodies of the dead Comanche were strangely truncated, their hands and feet missing. The Tonkawa had cut them off and packed them to take to their women and children for feasting. Then they had borrowed a huge washtub, and were boiling up a stew of sections of their enemies' thighs. They were in high spirits because they had helped defeat the Comanche and they had been rewarded with horses. Silhouetted against the fires' light, they danced and sang among the corpses, mutilating them even more.

  After leaving his prisoner with a man who said he needed a housekeeper, McCulloch sat on his exhausted horse, looking over the scene. Tomorrow he would gather his men and track the Comanche. But now he would get a full night's sleep for the first time in a week.

  "John." McCulloch tried not to smile at Ford. "You can't write the word 'penis' in an official report to the Texas Secretary of War."

  "But Ben, you said to write it up as it happened. And that's his name. Buffalo Penis. You told me so yourself."

  "Nevertheless, President Lamar will throw a shoe. The Texas legislature may not have money to pay us, but they still think they're in charge."

  "How about Buffalo Balls, or Donkey Dick? Or Bison Pisser?" Bill Wallace looked up from his poker game.

  "Wallace, that's enough." But Wallace was full of suggestions.

  "I know, Ben. Call him Comanche Cock or Buffalo Humps."

  McCulloch ducked his head and pretended to study John Ford's report on the splintered ammunition crate that served him as a desk. Four small rocks anchored the comers of the paper to keep it from blowing away.

  "Buffalo Hump will do," he finally said, when he could do it without laughing.

  Wallace left his poker hand face down on the hide spread out as a table. He walked over to the crate and pulled the corncob plug from the gourd he always carried.

  "I christen thee Buffalo Hump. May your tribe decrease." And with a flourish, he poured a drop of whiskey onto the report.

  "Wallace, what are you doing? We'll have to send to Austin for more paper."

  "They have plenty of paper in Austin," said Ford. "The only thing they have more of than paper is lawyers. What is it about government that attracts lawyers?"

  "Well, he'd have had to write it over anyway." Wallace sat back down with a grunt and surveyed his neglected cards.

  "It's a waste of good whiskey, Wall-eye. Hand it over."

  "Good whiskey!" It was Ford's turn to snort. "Wallace wouldn't know good whiskey from privy squeezings."

  Ben McCulloch raised the gourd. "Here's to Buffalo Hump." They all laughed as they passed it around.

  CHAPTER 33

  Upstream slept as he rode, stretched on his belly along his pony's back. His arms dangled at the horse's neck, and his cheek lay against it. His small, full mouth was partly open. His eyelid twitched and his lip jumped from time to time, as though startled, even in his sleep. Cruelest One rode ahead of him, leading the boy's horse. The tiny warrior was not much taller than Upstream. But his body was so lean and muscled, it was as though all excess had been whittled off, leaving only the tough heartwood of him. In another hour he would waken Upstream and sleep while his own pony was led. Skinny And Ugly had the same arrangement with Hunting A Wife.

  For five days the party had eaten only what little jerky Skinny And Ugly happened to have in a pouch tied to his surcingle when the Texans attacked. The meat was gone now, and their stomachs cramped with hunger. Cruelest One was chewing on a piece of leather in an attempt to fool his muttering insides. He wouldn't stop long enough to hunt. They would make the rest of the journey on water, and not enough of that. They rested for an hour three or four times a day, and rode all night. This was the usual method of traveling when they were pursued. They were used to it, but it was hard on Upstream.

  Far behind them smoke rose beyond the line of flat-topped ridges. It came from the fires they had set to cover their tracks. A day's ride from Plum Creek they had stopped for a night's rest, and had almost been caught by a Ranger patrol. They hadn't laid down to sleep since.

  That morning they had ridden through steep hills carpeted with a dark green nap of scrub oak. Now they were at the Clear Fork of the Brazos, on a grass-covered hill overlooking the river as it flowed lazily through deep-cut banks. Cruelest One was headed for one of Pahayuca's regular campsites. There would be signs left there for those who knew how to read them.

  The campsite had been occupied recently, and it was easy to find. The ground around it had been thoroughly trampled, although new shoots were already pushing up to cover it again. Cruelest One and Hunting A Wife squatted at a pile of buffalo bones thrown into a heap. They looked haphazard, but Cruelest One was studying the scratches on them carefully.

  "Two days north. They must be at Pease River."

  "This is all Tenawa country. We don't belong here." Hunting A Wife had been brooding the entire journ
ey.

  "We have no choice. The white man is crowding us together like cattle in one of his corrals. Let's go." Cruelest One didn't waste any more time on reflection than he did on compassion. He had picked Upstream up reflexively, acting on his training for tribal survival. If he had known how grateful the boy was, he would have dismissed the whole thing with a snarl. He ignored Upstream as they rode the swells of the grassy hills to the north.

  In small groups the survivors of the Plum Creek fight wandered into the Penateka camps strung along the upper Colorado and Brazos Rivers. They had lost at least one fourth of the army that had ridden out so proudly. They had buried their dead in crevices along the trails. Most of those who were killed in battle had to be left at Plum Creek for the wild hogs to eat. Many of the men were without horses and had run behind their comrades, holding onto their ponies' tails to keep them going.

  The men separated when they entered camp, dropping in silently, one by one. They painted their faces black and shaved their horses' tails to show their sorrow and shame. The sounds of mourning went on for weeks. Buffalo Piss left on a journey to Medicine Mounds to bargain with his spirits and try to find out what he had done wrong. Upstream arrived safely and ate enough to carry him through the winter. Then he slept through two sundowns like a brown little chipmunk hibernating.

  He began following Cruelest One around camp, ignoring the threats and scowls and finally the clods of dirt thrown at him in exasperation. He would squat nearby like a devoted dog while the warrior smoked or talked to the other men. And he would rush forward to bring a coal for the pipe or ask if there were any messages Cruelest One wanted delivered. At last, in disgust, Cruelest One packed his few belongings onto his animals and left on one of his meandering journeys. Upstream moped around for a few days, and then consoled himself by recounting his adventures to his friends. He could usually be found with a group of them, acting out the sacking of Linnville and the disaster at Plum Creek.

  Summer finally relented and the days were cool, the nights cold. The huge fall moon was dwindling and misshapen, as though one edge had been torn off. Overhead, the leaves of the tall cottonwoods and pecans glimmered a brilliant gold where the moon's light shone on them. Piles of brittle leaves, driven by the wind, rattled around the sides of Sunrise's lodge, like dogs scratching to get in.

  Naduah and Star Name sat by the fire cracking pecans from the huge pile between them. Medicine Woman was sorting the latest batch of bark and roots and herbs, feeling and sniffing them to identify them. Then she tied them in bundles to hang for drying. Sprays of them were already filling the air with a spicy scent. Black Bird was sewing by the fire's light, and Takes Down The Lodge was giving Sunrise the usual account of the day's gossip. Dog was on Naduah's bed, snoring lightly. No one knew where Upstream was. More than likely he was with his friends, rustling the band's ponies for a ride through the moonlight that washed the prairie.

  There was a jingling outside and a dry rustle as the hide flap was pulled back. Wanderer stepped into the light, followed by Spaniard and Deep Water. They all walked around the fire, murmuring their apologies to Medicine Woman for blocking her from the heat as they passed. Medicine Woman recognized the voices.

  "Wanderer, you have wandered back to us." Her smile wrinkled around her sightless eyes.

  "Yes, Grandmother. And I brought you presents." He pulled a sack from the leather saddle bag he carried and handed it to Takes Down. She beamed at him.

  "Coffee. We had run out. It will warm our hearts as well as our bellies, Wanderer." She rattled the beans into an iron skillet and began roasting them. Naduah leaned forward to sniff the wonderful aroma, and to get a better view of Wanderer. No one said anything else as the three men sat down next to Sunrise on his pile of woolly buffalo hides. It was courtesy to let guests warm themselves and relax before distracting them with conversation.

  Star Name stood, shaking the pieces of pecan hulls from her skirt, and searched for a container to put the nut meats in. When she sat back down, she was close to Deep Water. Naduah saw the smile her sister gave him. Only Star Name could manage to look shy and impish at the same time. And there was now the hint of wantoness in the imp. Deep Water stared at her, a spark of joy in his big, sad eyes. They were so beautiful they made one forget the scars on his face.

  Star Name was almost fifteen and too big for a simple one-piece dress now. She wore the poncho and skirt of a woman. And she filled it well. She had a heart-shaped face with a full, wide mouth.

  It was Star Name who had sneaked into Wanderer's lodge when he had camped with Pahayuca's band in July, three month earlier, before Buffalo Piss's raid. She had stolen a pair of his moccasins and brought them triumphantly to her sister. Naduah needed them to take measurements for a pair she wanted to make him in return for all his help with Wind. She thought she was finally a good enough seamstress. They'd giggled, she and Star Name, as she traced around the sole onto the tanned hide, using Takes Down's sharp drawing stick to indent the lines into the leather. Then Star Name had sneaked them back to the guest lodge.

  Naduah looked over at the box where she kept her present in the soft case she had made. Suddenly she didn't want to give the moccasins to him. They were crude. Poorly sewn. He probably had many pairs, all of them better than the ones she'd made. She decided not to say anything about them. She didn't have to. Star Name broke the silence.

  "Naduah has a surprise for you, Wanderer." Naduah glared at her. Not here. Not in front of all these people. What if he didn't like them?

  "Not now, Star Name," she said. Naduah could feel the blush heating her face and hoped it would look like light from the fire. "The men have important things to talk about." And she stopped in confusion. She didn't want the men to talk about those things. They might make her leave. She saw Wanderer so seldom, and he might leave tomorrow. Or tonight. He always put her off balance, making her self-conscious and shy. But she wanted to watch him and listen to him all night. And all the next day.

  "May I see it, Naduah?"

  She rose slowly, reluctantly, conscious of the bare skin at her waist. She wished she had her robe with her, and wondered if she would stumble or do something clumsy as she went to the box.

  "They're beautiful! How did you know what size to make them?"

  "That's our secret." said Star Name, giggling at the memory of her raid on his lodge. Wanderer held one of the moccasins against his foot to measure it. He turned it over to inspect the bottom.

  "I made the soles from an old lodge cover, the smoked part near the chimney, so they won't get stiff. And I greased them to make them waterproof."

  "She shot one of the skunks and I shot the other," broke in Star Name again. "From a hundred paces." The thick, silky skunk tails hung down the backs of the moccasins. They were designed to trail in the dust and obscure the wearer's tracks. Wanderer smiled.

  "My paces or yours?"

  "Ours. But we're good shots, Naduah and I." Wanderer passed the moccasins around so the others could admire the beading on the pointed toes. And Naduah glowed with pleasure, her head down. She could almost feel the warmth of his smile on the top of it.

  "I have something for you too. I'll show it to you later. It's something from the raid to the Big Water."

  "Of course you know what happened after you left." Sunrise spoke for the first time, turning the talk to the most important issue.

  "Yes. We've been staying with different bands on the trail from Mexico." There was no criticism of Buffalo Piss's decision to come north through hostile territory. That was something to be discussed only among the men, and in council.

  "The white men raided again." Spaniard spoke up.

  "Rain's camp," said Wanderer. His face shifted, became angry. "They burned everything. They roasted Rain's people's stores of meat in the flames of their burning lodges. They attacked at dawn again."

  "Had Rain posted lookouts?" Sunrise asked a question that should have been obvious, but wasn't.

  "No. Of course not. We've never
had lookouts in our big camps." It was unheard of. A camp of one hundred and fifty lodges being attacked. It bothered Wanderer. The white men were braver and more reckless than he had given them credit for.

  "Wanderer." Medicine Woman's soft, quavery voice called from a dim corner. "You tell the story. It's confusing when everyone speaks at once."

  "All right, Grandmother." There was silence, broken only by Dog's whimpering as she chased a rabbit in her dreams. Wanderer sat staring into the fire and collecting his thoughts. The light flickered on his face, and Naduah held her breath, lost in the beauty of him.

  Wanderer concentrated on the story he was telling, living it again in his mind.

  "We had been following the trail of Rain's band and planned to stay with them. But we found several of them hiding in that cave in the humped bluffs near the Talking Water River.

  "Many of the people in the cave were wounded, and one woman was mad with grief. She had seen her baby trampled under the hooves of the white men's horses. The woman sneaked out of the cave, climbed to the bluff, and threw herself into the river. And no one could mourn, except in silence. They feared the white men's patrols who might be hunting them still.

  "Most of the men were away hunting when the white eyes attacked. They rode through the camp howling like a pack of angry panthers and shooting into the lodges. Many people ran to the river and were killed trying to swim across. The white men had stolen Rain's horses, and they chased the warriors a great distance, hunting them through the brush like prairie hens. Then they went back to the village and burned everything, except the tent where they piled the wounded.

  "When we found Rain's men, they were waiting for nightfall to steal their ponies back. We went with them, of course. Deep Water would travel a long way to kill a Texan, and here were some close at hand. It was easy to steal the horses.

  "The white men are so careless. They've learned to attack on horseback. And they've learned to steal our ponies before they attack. But they haven't learned to leave, to sting and fly away. And they never will learn that we're the best horse thieves there are. We sniped at them all the way back to that new village they're building farther down the Talking Water River. Every night we yelled as we rode away with a few more horses, so the white men would know we'd visited.