Ride the Wind

by Lucia St. Clair Robson

  "Would you care to bet that Wanderer suggests a long hunting trip very soon?"

  "No bet, Star Name. He probably will. And I'll be glad to go with him. I'm sorry our trip here has ended."

  "I know what you mean. It was fun, wasn't it. Sister. But there'll be many more."

  "Here come the women," said Naduah. "They'll probably want to know whether the Wasps put plums or persimmons or pecans in their pemmican."

  "Or whether we prefer the lazy stitch or the overlay stitch for beadwork. Or whether our women are sewing their blouses and skirts together in the new style."

  "And they'll finger the seams on our clothes, and study our moccasins to see if they're made well enough."

  "And of course they'll want to touch your yellow hair. Sister."

  "I don't mind, as long as they don't try to take any away with them."

  The drums started, and the singers began to chant for the dance.

  Naduah and Star Name joined the group of women coming toward them. They would go to Iron Shirt's set of lodges for a feast, then join the welcoming celebration and dance the sun up.

  CHAPTER 38

  Naduah lay on her back, feeling the warmth of Wanderer's long, lean body next to hers. The gold chain with the eagle coin on it trailed across his sleek chest. The sun had yet to heat up the east side of the lodge, but it was June and the day would be hot. The robe had slid down toward their feet and she had awakened with a start. Even after ten months living alone with Wanderer in the Quohadi band, she still felt self-conscious. She still thought, when on the borderline of sleep and consciousness, that her family was sharing the tent with them and would see her exposed.

  She gently pulled the furry robe up to their waists and lay listening to Wanderer's soft breathing. His head was turned toward her, and his face was totally at peace. He looked young and vulnerable. The beauty of him made her eyes fill. She blinked and stared at the blurred outlines of the lodge cover above her. The shapes of the hides were familiar patterns to her. As her tears dried, she studied the seams of Takes Down's neat stitches. She sighed. It was evident which seams Takes Down had done and which ones she herself had sewn. She'd do better on the next one. Just for practice, she would offer to help anyone making a lodge cover. In the meantime, Takes Down's seams were a comfort to Naduah, as individual as a signature.

  Naduah listened to the birds whistling and squabbling in the cottonwoods and cedars outside. Now and then a blackbird would crash into the treetops with a sound like the tearing and crumpling of paper. From nearby came the morning song of the first riser. As she listened to Lance chant his thanks for the new day, Naduah felt as though it had officially begun.

  She turned over, raised herself onto her elbows, and started to climb carefully over Wanderer. He always slept on the outer edge of the bed, ready to leap up and grab his lance or his cherished carbine. It leaned now against the pole by his head. He kept it oiled and polished, and wrapped in a leather case when traveling. The brass trigger guard and bands around the barrel gleamed, and the wooden stock was satiny with handling. Next to it lay the pouch with the balls, and the powder flask. He had taken the triangular bayonet that fit under the barrel and had ground it down into a large knife blade. The People's style of warfare had little use for hand-to-hand combat.

  Naduah thought she could slide over Wanderer without waking him. But as her full breasts brushed his chest, he reached sleepily for her. He hugged her voluptuous body to him, nuzzling her neck and nipples. She gently bit his shoulder, her long pale hair cascading around them both. Then she pushed herself back up onto her elbows.

  "I'm going down to the river."

  "Mmmmmm." He smiled without opening his eyes. Then he let her go, rolled over with a faint grunt, and went to sleep again. They had all been celebrating until just a few hours before. Buffalo Piss had arrived with a dozen people from the Penateka, and there had been the usual carrying-on. Tonight the men would probably sit long in council. Buffalo Piss obviously had something on his mind.

  Naduah pulled her one-piece dress from the pole rack where it hung next to Wanderer's everyday breechclout and leggings. She drew it over her head and shook out the fringe. She brushed her hair quickly, slipped on her old moccasins, and stepped out into the cool, fragrant morning. Next to the doorway Wanderer's covered shield stood on its tripod, soaking up the power of the sun. And it seemed to her like a sentry guarding them from harm.

  Wisps of ground fog still clung to the bushes low to the ground. The air was scented with cedar and flowers and smoke. Around her, the red walls of Palo Duro canyon rose in a protective embrace. Tall grass grew along the shallow river that meandered through the bottom of the canyon. The lodges were thinly sown among the trees along the river. She followed the well-worn path to the best bathing place. Dog came with her, wagging her tail and frisking clumsily, zigzagging from one side of the trail to the other.

  Naduah was careful not to disturb Lance. He preferred to take his morning bath in solitude. He would stand silently with his arms upraised to the rising sun. Then he would solemnly wade into the water and splash it over himself.

  The most astonishing thing about Lance was that he had found time from his religious preoccupations to marry. He hadn't had many horses to pay for Tarkau Huhtsu, Snow Bird, but her father had agreed anyway. Everyone could see that Lance would be a powerful medicine man some day. Already people came to him to ask him to name their children, or give them amulets for hunting or war, or paint holy designs on their shields. And Snow Bird suited him. She was as quiet and shy as he was.

  Naduah lay serenely in the water, naked in the morning sunlight. Her hair floated out behind her, and she drowsed. Above her a fleet of fleecy white clouds sailed by, shifting and billowing. Graceful vultures soared lazily around the canyon's lip. A few late bats flitted among the trees, like hallucinations seen from the corner of the eye. Soon they would disappear to dangle, little velvet sacks, in crevices in the canyon wall.

  As she soaked, Naduah reached down and scooped up handfuls of sand from the bottom. She rubbed it over her body and felt the grains wash away and drift to the bottom again. She and Star Name, Deep Water, and Wanderer had returned from a hunting trip the day before, and she could still smell the lingering odor of the crushed mescal beans she had spread on herself. The powder kept the mosquitoes and buffalo gnats off her, but she didn't like the fetid odor.

  Then she heard the distant laughter of children coming to wash, and she knew it was time to leave. She waded out, swinging her arms in front of her through the water and watching the glittering silvery spray of water it made. She dressed and filled the water paunches she had brought. As she walked along the path through the bushes and grass and flowers, cooled by the shade of the cotton woods, she thought of the chores she had to do that day. Make breakfast, gather wood, see to the horses, pack the dried meat they had brought in yesterday, smoke the hides she had tanned, and gather herbs. Then there was the painted robe she was making for Wanderer and the shirt for his father, and the moccasins that always needed mending.

  And there was the visiting and the gossiping. And dyes to boil. It was becoming harder and harder to slip away with Star Name for long, leisurely rides along the river or practice with their bows and arrows. And Wanderer had promised to teach her to shoot his carbine. But ammunition was scarce. There was little for practice. Naduah didn't like the gun anyway. It was loud and it hurt her ears. It bruised her shoulder and exploding powder burned her face. But she stubbornly kept on trying.

  Without thinking, she hummed Lance's morning chant. The daily repetition of it and its simple monotony made it impossible to drive from her head at times. She stopped guiltily and looked around when she realized what she was doing. A person's medicine songs were his own, and sacred. They could be given or sold, but never taken without asking.

  Buffalo Piss and his men had come to the Staked Plains. He spoke to the leaders gathered in Iron Shirt's council lodge.

  "The white men are everywh
ere. They swarm like buffalo gnats. And the old Penateka leaders, Pahayuca and Old Owl, Santa Ana and Sanaco, they meet with them and agree to their demands. The young men's bravery is eaten away by the whiskey that the white traders bring with them.

  "Last fall, right after Wanderer left, three Texans came to meet with us. They invited the leaders of the Penateka to make honey talk with more of the treacherous cowards. They wanted us to walk into their town and be slaughtered again like helpless deer." Buffalo Piss was almost chewing on the pipe stem in his rage.

  "Arrow Point and I wanted to kill them then and there. Or tie them in the center of the village for the women to torture. They have no honor, these Texans. They lured us to treaty talks and turned on us. And then they expected us to come meekly again.

  "All afternoon we discussed it. Not whether or not to go to the treaty talks, but whether or not to kill the envoys. We were there all afternoon. And Pahayuca kept silent. Finally he spoke. He was the last to do so.

  " 'These men's honor and the honor of the Texans does not concern me,' he said. 'My honor and the honor of the Wasps does. The Texans are not the People. They do not understand our ways or our honor. I will not be disgraced by the blood of men who have come to me under a flag of truce. Their blood is not worth it. The blood of all Texans is not worth it. For after they are dead, I will still have to live with myself, and with my shame. They will not be harmed while they are here under my protection. Any man who wishes to harm them must fight me. Suvate, that is all.'

  "What could we say? After Pahayuca and Old Owl agreed to meet with them, we let them go. The leaders made honey talk with Sam Hyu-stahn a month ago. They agreed to allow trading posts. They agreed to stop raiding. To stop raiding! Why didn't the Texans ask us to stop breathing? A man who doesn't raid is not a man. And as usual, the Texans refused to set boundaries on themselves. They won't guarantee us our land, or promise to punish those who wrong us.

  "So we came here, those of us who can no longer live under the conditions in the south. The Quohadi will never surrender. They will never allow the white men to set up trading posts and destroy their young men with stupid water. And they will never stop raiding."

  The pipe passed to Wanderer, and he thought as he drew a deep breath on it. Then he stood and adjusted his robe, to signal that he would speak next. He wrapped it around his chest and draped it over his left arm, leaving his shoulders uncovered. Solemnly he recounted the war records of Pahayuca and Santa Ana, Old Owl and Sanaco. He told of their coups and their bravery, their wisdom and loyalty. He told the history of the Penateka, their courage as warriors. Then he talked of the white men.

  "The Penateka have always lived in the lands the whites want, the easy lands where there is much timber and game and water. A hundred years ago the Spanish tried to take their lands, and the Penateka fought them and won. Their warriors rode fearlessly through the Spanish towns in daylight and took whatever they wanted. But the Texans are different. They spawn like rabbits, like fish in the streams, like mosquitoes in the swamps. Their lodges are crowded with children. And still more come from the east. They bring sickness with them, and death, and the stupid water.

  "And they bring guns. If we're going to drive them out, we have to have guns like theirs. And powder and ammunition. I will lead a party south to steal more of them. We will raid until every man of the Quohadi has a gun. We will raid until the white men are beaten and leave our lands forever."

  Iron Shirt spoke next.

  "My son speaks wisely when he says we must continue raiding. But I do not agree that guns are the answer. Our arrows are better than the white man's guns. They fire more quickly, and they do not require powder and bullets. If a bow breaks, we can make another one. If a gun breaks, it is useless to us. Bows do not misfire, or explode or hang fire or rust or jam. They do not wound or deafen the man firing them. While the white men stop to reload, we can shower them with arrows.

  "We should steal the white man's weapons whenever we can. It's better for us to have them than him. But we must not depend on them to defend ourselves. We must not depend on weapons that come from a source outside ourselves. When we do that, we will be as foolish as those who depend on the white man's wih-skee for their courage."

  For the rest of the afternoon the men discussed the raid that Wanderer proposed. Wanderer's face was expressionless through- out it. If he was angry with his father for contradicting him, he never showed it. The council lodge was not a place of anger. Anger was undignified, and maintaining the dignity of the council was much more important than personal slights and offenses.

  When he returned to his lodge that night, however, Naduah could tell he was raging inside. She served the stew silently, waiting for him to speak. Finally he did, in a low, calm, dangerous voice.

  "There will be a raid. I will lead a party, but there will probably be more than one group going. Buffalo Piss is going to Sun Name's band to recruit more men. Everyone is restless after a quiet winter. Many will want to go, to teach the Texans a lesson."

  "May I go with you?"

  "No, golden one. We will be raiding far south, deep into the timber country where the Penateka used to hunt. There are many white men there now, and they will try to take you. I do not want to risk losing you."

  "I could darken my hair, dress as a man."

  He stared at her in his intense way, tenderness showing through the rage.

  "No, my love. Darken your hair, dress as a man. You're still too much of a woman to hide it. And your blue eyes shine like signal shields on a high hill in the bright sun."

  Naduah sighed. She knew why Sunrise had insisted that she learn to shoot and track and hunt. There were many weeks, months, sometimes years, when the men were gone on raids. And the women were left to fend for themselves and their families.

  They moved inside, and he began checking his war gear. While he cleaned his carbine and rolled fresh sinew bowstrings, she took out the envelope-shaped rawhide wardrobe case. She untied the flap and pulled out his war shirt, leggings, moccasins, blanket, braid wrappers, and bear claw necklace. She shook the clothes and inspected them for wear or stains. Then she hung them over the pole rack to let the wrinkles fall out. Next she took his eagle feathers from the stiff tubular case that kept them from becoming torn or broken. She retied one of them onto its bone holder, and polished the silver disks.

  Then she began an inventory of all the items he would need as he traveled: carrying cases, extra moccasins, his medicine bag, fire-making equipment, jerky, his pipe bag with its tamper and tobacco, a buffalo robe, his quirt, powder horn, lead balls, his knife, club, sinew, and awl in their tiny cylindrical case, spare leather for patching, his whetstone and its case, his war-paint bag and seashells for mixing the powders. She added a bag of puoip root from her supply of medicines and a bag of skunk musk to blot out any scent trails that the Texans' hounds might follow. Wanderer took out a lead ingot and his bullet mold. He built up the fire until it was hot enough to melt the lead. While he worked, he talked.

  "None of them understands. None of them. Iron Shirt lives in the past. 'Arrows are better than guns,' he says. Never do they ask where the guns come from. Where do the Texans get them? We have raided all over the country, and rarely do we find a place where the guns are made. Who makes them? Who improves them?

  "I remember the first gun I ever saw, an old smoothbore, muzzle-loading musket that took forever to load. Each year the guns get better. For how long will our arrows be more efficient? What will the next improvement be?" He shook the carbine in the air to emphasize his point. And he looked at Naduah strangely, as though she had changed while he talked.

  "Do you know where the guns come from, golden one?"

  "No, I don't." And she busied herself with her work. She told him the truth. She didn't know. When she was a child guns had always been in her family's houses, but she never asked where they came from. They were always just there. She had lived in isolation on the frontier since before she was old enough to remember a
nything. She could no more imagine an armory than Wanderer could. She could barely remember her family's last cabin.

  "Pahayuca and Old Owl are treating with the whites now."

  "Yes, I heard that," she said.

  "You and Cub are gone. They no longer have a reason not to."

  "Surely that has nothing to do with it. The Penateka have been hounded by soldiers and Rangers until there's nothing else for them to do."

  "There's always something else for them to do. They can do what the People have always done. Fight." In spite of his anger, Wanderer sounded sad. "No. Like my father, they're getting old. They've won their coups, made their reputations. They have no more need for the war trail. And they're denying the young men the opportunity to become leaders. They've been seduced by the trinkets that the white men bring. Because you can be sure that the Great Texas Father, Sam Hyu-stahn, isn't going to allow his traders to sell us guns or horses. Nothing we can really use.

  "They'll bring us trinkets, things we've always gotten along without. Ribbons and flour and coffee. They'll be coffee chiefs— Pahayuca and Old Owl and Santa Ana. Coffee chiefs!" He spat the words out as though they were bitter in his mouth.

  "Wanderer, stop!" Naduah sat in misery in the middle of the pile of soft furry sleeping robes. Her knees were drawn up and her face was buried in her arms. He sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. With his other hand he pulled back the thick, flaxen hair to see her face.

  "I love Old Owl and Pahayuca too. I respect their courage and their wisdom. I haven't forgotten their records as warriors. But the future is no longer theirs. They have nothing piled on the sidelines to bet on it. Their fighting days are almost over. We are the ones who will pay for what they are doing. We and our children."

  "I'll fight with you, Wanderer. I want to go on this raid."

  "Not this time." Outside, from different parts of the village, the sound of drums intensified, like a pulse beating faster with the excitement of war. Men were seeking medicine to protect them as they fought.