Ride the Wind

by Lucia St. Clair Robson

  "They finally got home, though some of them were walking and they had few extra pack animals left. And they had a big dance to celebrate their victory. Their women were there too. So we decided to steal the horses we'd missed." Wanderer rose to a low crouch and stalked stealthily around the lodge, acting out their raid into Austin itself.

  "We crept among the square lodges like coyotes coming into the village at night to sniff around the meat racks. We went to the pasture, but they had dug a ditch around it. We filled in a section of it and led forty of their best horses across it while the white eyes danced and laughed nearby.

  "The three of us tied our ponies far away and went back to watch them when they came out and found themselves afoot. I wish I could have understood what they were yelling." Wanderer laughed, and the boy returned to his face.

  "I understood it."

  "I didn't know you could speak white talk, Spaniard."

  "I can't. I didn't have to speak it to understand what they were saying."

  "I wonder why one of them threw his hat down and jumped on it," said Deep Water.

  "Maybe it was a sacrifice to their gods, asking for help getting the horses back," suggested Spaniard.

  "Or a war dance they do," Wanderer continued. "Rain's people will need those horses to hunt and replace what they lost. They're living in caves now, or staying with other bands."

  As she listened, Naduah felt fear in the pit of her stomach. It frightened her to think that they might be attacked in their beds. Sunrise must have been thinking the same thing.

  "We will discuss this with Pahayuca and suggest that sentries be posted."

  "I only wish we had killed more of the white men." Deep Water's voice was low but intense.

  "We'll kill plenty of them," said Wanderer. "The Texans will wish they had never come here. And when we drive them out, they'll be walking."

  Just as she had expected, Naduah saw little of Wanderer for the next two days. He was shut up with Pahayuca in the council lodge. The smoke was so thick inside, it floated out the door. Naduah tried to peek surreptitiously inside as she and Star Name passed on their way to Something Good's and then the river.

  Something Good's lodge looked as it always had, except that things of value were hung high on the walls, and little Weasel's toys and clothes were scattered about. Weasel herself sat naked in the middle of the floor, near the fire, her chubby legs spread in front of her. She had dragged away some of the hide rugs to clear a space, and was deeply engrossed in her play. She was chanting to herself and pulling a crude twig travois over the mountains and trails that she'd made. Her mother sat sewing, a thick, furry robe thrown over her shoulders.

  "Is the Weasel planning our next move?" asked Naduah.

  "I suppose so." Something Good smiled at her daughter. "Any day now she'll want to sit on the council and tell the men what to do. She's very headstrong. I don't know where it comes from." Naduah thought of Wanderer's dead brother's cheerful obstinance. and of how he could charm anyone into doing whatever he wanted. The child's mother went on. "Yesterday, while I was gathering wood, she tried to make rivers in here. And she brought in water to fill them. You should have seen the mess."

  Star Name squatted beside Weasel and was murmuring to her while she whittled a crude pony from a forked stick. Together they fastened the travois to it with a piece of thong. While they played, Naduah stated her business.

  "We've come to take Weasel to the river with us. It looks like she could use a bath too."

  "Just don't keep her in too long. She'll get chilled."

  "When the afternoon sun hits the shallow part of the river it isn't bad. And the weather's warm for this time of year." Naduah carried a bag with shampoo in it. It was a thick ooze made of bear grass boiled with the pale, parasitic love vine. It looked disgusting, but it did the job.

  It took them a long time to leave the village with the Weasel. They had to stop at almost every lodge so the women could admire her and give her sweets. No matter who her father had been, it was impossible to snub Weasel. Her eyes seemed to take up most of her face, and tiny lights danced in them. Her laugh was irresistible.

  The three of them finally cleared the camp and trotted down the path to the water. They wove through the cedars, jumping out from behind them to scare each other. The thick mat of dry needles was springy under their moccasins. But it was cooler in the shade of the trees, and they worried that Weasel might get cold.

  "We'll race you, Weasel." The child ran, pumping her small legs and grimacing while the other two pretended to be unable to catch her. They broke from the trees onto the narrow beach. The warm sun felt wonderful. They spent half an hour scrubbing and washing, then lay back in the water.

  "We should get out now," said Naduah. "The Weasel pup is beginning to shrivel."

  "I know. But the air is colder than the water."

  "One of us should get out and dry her." Naduah felt as though she could lie there forever. The water washing over her left her completely limp and relaxed.

  "You can do it." Star Name felt the same way.

  "She likes you better than me, Star Name. You play with her more."

  "You can stand the cold better than I can."

  "All right," sighed Naduah. She stood up, and for some reason looked up. And sat back down so fast she felt the gravel cut into her.

  "What are you doing up there?" she yelled. "Go away!"

  Star Name and Weasel looked up too, and Weasel laughed with delight. Wanderer was one of her favorite people.

  "Come play with us, Wanderer," she called. She stood and cupped her small hands around her mouth. She was in shallower water, and her naked little body glistened, her stomach jutting out over her sturdy, bowed legs.

  "Go away," Naduah yelled again, an edge to her voice. Wanderer sat on top of the bluff, his legs dangling over the side.

  "I'll dry her off," he shouted. And he stood and disappeared as though sinking below the horizon.

  "Go away!" But Naduah was too late. She and Star Name moved out into deeper water. The cold was beginning to affect them. They felt colder patches of water surging around them, and their fingers and toes were becoming numb. Wanderer appeared, running from the cedars, and Weasel splashed to meet him. She leaped into his arms like a wriggly puppy when he squatted, and soaked his shirt front. He rubbed her hard with the rag they had brought, until there was a pink glow to her skin. Then he dried her hair, tumbling it all over her head, and he dressed her. Holding her by the hand, he came to stand at the edge of the water.

  "Do you want me to dry you two off too?" Naduah had never seen him look that devilish.

  "No!" By now even Star Name was becoming angry. "Go away so we can come out. We're freezing."

  Wanderer held out his hands to show they were empty.

  "I have no weapons. I can't stop you from coming out."

  "Wanderer, I'll get even with you for this." Grimly, Star Name stood and stalked toward him, her fists clenched at her sides. The late afternoon sun turned the beads of water into small jewels on her dark, sleek body. Naduah knew Star Name was lovely, and suddenly she felt pale and ugly and jealous.

  "Please, Wanderer. Leave us alone." By now her teeth were chattering.

  "All right." He laughed and turned, leading Weasel by the hand. "We'll wait for you at the top of the bluff. I have the presents I promised you both, and I wanted to give them to you before I left."

  "No!" Naduah stood without thinking, sending the gray water out in surges around her. "You can't leave." She pulled her long, heavy, wet hair across her chest and waded in after her sister. By this time Star Name was pulling her dress over her head, regally ignoring Wanderer, who had turned around again.

  "You just told me to leave." He was looking at Naduah solemnly, but she knew he was laughing. She could see it in his eyes.

  "You know what I mean. Turn around." She said it imperiously, circling her hand in front of her to explain it further.

  Wanderer made a complete circle and
ended up staring at her again. She held her hands up, trying to cover herself and at the same time grab the clothes he held out to her. She tried to ignore him the way Star Name did, and she concentrated on the dress. The soft suede clung to her wet skin and made it difficult to pull it on in a hurry. She kept her eyes lowered, avoiding his. She could almost feel his look. Her body was still smooth and without hair, but her breasts were beginning to swell and she was self-conscious about them. She scolded to hide her embarrassment, hopping around as she put on her moccasins.

  "You're always leaving. All I ever say to you is good-bye. Why don't you stay with us?"

  "I've been away from my band a long time. I have to go back."

  Naduah felt the sting of tears. He was so hateful. Why did she feel as if a big hole was ripped from her life every time he left and a cold, bleak wind was whistling through the opening? He didn't care about her. She was only a child for him to tease. He probably had someone back on the desolate Staked Plains waiting for him, someone more beautiful even than Something Good.

  She gave Wanderer her robe and he wrapped Weasel in it. He carried the child lightly in his arms, her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. With one hand poking out of the robe she played with the fringes decorating the yoke of his hunting shirt. Naduah shivered in the shade of the cedars. Her hair felt cold and clammy on her neck.

  Night waited at the top of the bluff, and he whickered when he saw them. Naduah ran her hand down the arch of his neck while Wanderer set Weasel on the ground. Naduah's robe draped over her like a tent, and part of it trailed behind her in a royal train. Weasel let go of it long enough to tug at Wanderer's leggings, setting the tiny bells there to jingling. Barely coming to the tops of his thighs, she tilted her head way back to look up at him.

  "What did you bring me from the raid to the Big Water?"

  "A nice rattlesnake for a friend."

  "But I don't want..." Weasel caught on. "You did not," she said, aggrieved.

  Wanderer searched inside the pouches slung on Night's surcingle. He pulled out a length of deep blue velvet ribbon and handed it to her. Next he found a turnip-shaped top, carved of wood and painted bright red above the string's groove and navy blue below it. The groove itself was white. He had made her a string of twisted sinew for it. She knew immediately what it was, even though it was more sophisticated than the crudely carved ones her friends played with. She smiled up at him.

  "Will you show me how to spin it with the string?" The ones she had seen were spun with a whip, thongs attached to a wooden handle.

  "Maybe Star Name will show you. I have to talk to Naduah."

  He gave Star Name her presents wrapped in calico. She unwrapped them carefully and smiled her thanks for the mirror and the box of vermillion. Naduah might pretend ignorance of what was between herself and Wanderer, but Star Name was aware of it. She could feel the tension vibrating like hummingbirds' wings around them. She helped Weasel tuck the robe up and free her hands to clutch her presents to her chest. Together they headed toward the village.

  Wanderer passed the bundle of blanketing to Naduah. She opened it and held up the Mexican bridle, turning it so the silver ornaments glinted in the slanted sunlight. She felt as though there were a cord tightening around her throat and she could barely talk.

  "It's beautiful." Wanderer had to lean closer to hear her.

  "I thought of you when I saw it."

  "Please don't go," she whispered.

  "I have to. But I said I'd be back."

  "How many years will it be this time?" .

  "Only two. Or maybe three."

  "Forever."

  "The year will be gone before you've had a chance to miss me."

  "I need you to help me with Wind."

  "You're doing a good job with Wind. You only need me to fight off the swarms of men that'll be around you soon. Will you wait for me?" She nodded, her eyes down. He put his hand lightly on her bright hair, and brushed a lock of it over her shoulder. He rested his fingers there for an instant. Then he turned. He swung effortlessly onto Night's back, and the pony pranced a little, eager to be free and traveling again.

  "I have to hurry. Spaniard is waiting for me." He rode off without looking back.

  Naduah sat on a boulder, her shoulder still tingling from the light touch of his fingers. She draped the delicate, intricately tooled bridle across her thighs, and put the blanketing across her back to keep out the wind. Then she crossed her arms on her knee, lowered her head onto them, and sobbed.

  Outside the lodge, thunder grumbled threats of rain. Inside, Wanderer quietly watched his mother. Hawk Woman, direct his father's youngest wife as she cut out a pair of leggings. Finally, satisfied that they would be done right, she picked up a large tin bucket and started for the door.

  "Where are you going?" he asked.

  "There's white clay by the river," she said. "I'm going to dig some to clean your father's clothes."

  "It'll rain soon. Do it later." He studied her eyes, unnaturally large and bright in her thin face.

  "Then the clay will be too wet."

  "It's too wet and heavy even now. Ask Visits Her Relatives or Spotted Pony to do it. That's why father married them."

  "They're both busy. And they don't bother to find the purest clay." She disappeared through the doorway.

  She was so stubborn, like a mule at times. With a soft sigh, Wanderer rose and followed her. He would go along with her as though he had nothing better to do. And he would casually help her carry the bucket, leaden with wet clay. Hawk Woman wouldn't even slow down, much less quit her endless labor. Iron Shirt, Wanderer's father, had married two other women to help her. But whenever she caught up with her own work, she went off to help a friend or relative.

  Iron Shirt seemed oblivious to the fact that his first and favorite wife was ill, and had been weakening for over a year. Or perhaps he chose to ignore it, thinking that if he refused to recognize her illness it would leave. Iron Shirt was a shrewd judge of character, a master at manipulating men, yet he couldn't see that the mother of his only son was in pain and dying. Nor would he listen when Wanderer tried to tell him.

  Hawk Woman never complained, never indicated that she was being consumed by some slow inner fire. She denied it when Wanderer questioned her. He dreaded returning to his father's band after each trip he took. He feared that she might have died while he was gone. And when he was home, he spent as much time as possible with her, knowing her days were limited. He reminisced with her about his childhood, told her of his adventures, joked with her as he had when he was young, and helped her as much as he could.

  Now he towered over her as they walked through the village. She seemed to be shrinking with time, and he wondered how much of that could be explained by the fact that he had grown taller.

  "Wanderer!" One of Iron Shirt's friends ran after them, dodging around an empty drying rack.

  "Yes." Wanderer and his mother stopped in the middle of the street. All around them women and girls pulled strips of drying meat off the racks and covered equipment to protect it from the rain that was coming.

  "My son has just returned from his vision quest. He wants you to help him paint his shield."

  "Why doesn't he ask Iron Shirt or one of the medicine men? They're the ones who should do it." Painting sacred symbols on a young man's first shield was a very holy task, one usually reserved for the oldest and most respected warriors.

  "He wants you. He says the wolf spoke to him, promised to help him. And no one has more powerful wolf medicine than you."

  Wanderer stood a moment, thinking. Iron Shirt boasted about his son's powerful medicine and the fact that more and more men, even the older ones, were seeking his advice these days. But tension was growing between them. The young cub would someday challenge the leader of the pack, and they both knew it.

  "I will help your son," said Wanderer. "I'll come to his lodge tonight. Tell him to cut cedar and sage for the fire."

  "My heart is glad. I
will have a pony and other presents for you." The man beamed at him, turned, and strode off to give his son the good news.

  "The young men all admire you, my son. They tell stories about you when you're gone. They await your return each time you leave. A warrior with your reputation shouldn't be seen helping a woman with her chores."

  Wanderer smiled down at his mother. "A warrior with my reputation can do anything he pleases."

  CHAPTER 34

  Tears glittered in Cub's eyes. In his right hand he held a sharp rock. In his left he brandished a hefty chunk of firewood, a club to defend himself.

  "No! I won't go. Grandfather, help me." But Old Owl sat hunched and sobbing in front of his lodge door. His robe was pulled entirely over his head in deep mourning. Cub had the desolate feeling that he was already dead and being grieved. The men of the band were gathering outside their lodges, muttering angrily. Women collected in their doorways, watching and crying.

  David Faulkenberry sat back on his heels in the dust. He ran a hand through his thick, gray-streaked hair and squinted at the child in perplexity. Getting down on his level and reasoning with him obviously wasn't the answer. He stood, towering over the boy, who was big for his age. Cub took a better grip on his weapons and glared at him. He'd be a lot to handle, and taking him by force might set the braves off. The woman who thought she was John's mother was wailing in a lodge nearby. His aunt and his mother's friends were comforting her by howling even louder.

  The women were getting on David's nerves. This was turning out to be harder than he had figured. Then a slender warrior shouldered his way through the men and stood behind Cub.

  "Who's that?" David muttered from the comer of his mouth. Jim Shaw, the Delaware scout, answered, looking straight ahead and signing as he talked. He knew it was dangerous to hold conversations in a language the Comanche didn't understand. They were quick to expect treachery from Texans. He signed Faulkenberry's question and the answer Arrow Point gave.