It was early August, the end of the breeding season, and the bulls were vicious. This one rolled his bulging eyes at them and bellowed before he wheeled and lumbered away. Wanderer didn't bother chasing him. He was old. His feet were set more forward and his hind quarters dropped lower than the average. His hind legs were bent more in the hock joints. He would be tough.
Besides, the men had hunted as they rode. Bags of buffalo tongues and tender steaks from the humps were piled on the pack animals. The would cook slabs of the ribs over the fires that night. They would eat the succulent tongues and the sweet marrow roasted inside the bones. Naduah's mouth watered at the thought of the feast they would have. They had taken more meat than they needed because they would be sharing it. They were riding toward a rendezvous with José Piedad Tafoya and his Comancheros.
"Your men seem to like playing El Gallo, Wanderer." José Tafoya lounged against his saddle and watched the competition. Except for a few added scars on his face and arms, he hadn't changed much since the days when he brought a few loaded mules onto the Staked Plains and trailed after the Comanche. Like many of his men José wore leather pantaloons slit down the sides and baggy, white cotton drawers underneath. The rowels on his spurs were huge and jingled when he moved.
"I'd like to try it myself," said Wanderer.
"You'd better hurry. We didn't bring that many chickens with us." On the level bottom of the narrow valley below them, the Comancheros were teaching the warriors the rules of the game. It didn't take long. There weren't many. They buried a rooster up to its neck in the sand, and galloping riders tried to pull it out as they went by. The game didn't last long, because the men of the People almost never missed. More often than not the triumphant player rode away with only the head in his hand, and the supply of roosters was limited. José stood, cupping his hands, and snouted to his lieutenant.
"Chino, teach them El Coleo." He sat backdown. "This one is played on foot. My men will have a better chance against yours."
"How is it played?"
"With a bull. The meaner the better." He stood to shout again. "Bring El Bravo, not that one. That one is a pet. A kitten." Then, in Spanish and handtalk to Wanderer, "The object is to run after the bull and throw him. But you can only throw him by twisting his tail until he loses his balance. Of course, sometimes the bull runs after you. I lost three men that way last year. Bulls caught them in the stomach and ripped them open like those puffballs that grow in damp ground. Poof. What a mess. But I had a wonderful time consoling their widows."
"Ho-say," Wanderer was unusual. He preferred to talk business first and then get on with the stories. "I'm looking for the new pistols the Texans have. The ones that fire many times without reloading."
"I've seen them. A man loads them on Sunday and shoots all week. They're hard to find. I can perhaps bring them for you on the next trip. If you'll supply me with horses and cattle from Texas. There's a market for them in New Mexico, my friend. I can use as many as you can steal." The lean, brown trader gestured toward the west and the Mexican province. He pursed his lips, using them to point. It was easier than disengaging his hands from his serape, and it had become a habit with all the Mexicans and Pueblos.
"Have you seen the Penteka this trip?" asked Wanderer.
"Certainly. They're among our best customers." José' belched and scratched his crotch. "They're trading for more whiskey these days. I have some hidden in the hills, if you'd like it. The usual arrangement. When we're all ready to go our separate ways, you pay for it and a couple of my men, on their fastest horses of course, will lead you to it. It's not that we don't trust you, my brother. It's just that we know how excited your people get when they drink whiskey. Sometimes they go a little loco."
"We don't want your stupid water." Wanderer relit his pipe. Deep Water and Sore-Backed Horse joined them.
"Ho-say," said Deep Water, sprawling next to him and reaching for the pipe. "What news from the south?"
"Texas is now part of the United States." Tafoya groped for words to explain territorial boundaries, political organizations, annexation. "The Great White Father in Washington has made a treaty with the Father in Austin. They are now one tribe. Anyone who makes war on the Texans makes war on the United States. And that includes Mexico. A big United States war leader has gone to the Rio Grande. Texas soldiers are gathering there for a raid into Mexico. They say even El Diablo Hays and his Rangers will go. And the army will need all the horses it can get for supply trains. You have left the Texans with few animals."
"While the Texans are in Mexico we'll steal their stock and sell it back to them," grunted Sore-Backed Horse.
"It's not that simple, Brother," said José. "The United States is more powerful than the Texans."
"Children are more powerful than the Texans." Deep Water spat contemptuously.
"The United States will send soldiers to defend the settlements."
"Let them," said Wanderer. "I've seen those blue-jacket troops to the north. They move through the countryside like a flock of jays. 'Boom!' They fire off a gun in the evening so everyone will know where they are. 'Boom!' They fire off another one in the morning so we'll know they're still there. And in case we mistake their cannons for thunder, they blow horns all day long. Do the blue-jacket soldiers have the new pistols instead of those old, useless guns'?" Wanderer looked like he was ready to leave in search of them if they did.
"I don't know. But I have one of the shiny brass horns they blow. I'll be glad to trade it to you for two horses."
"Ho-say," said Sore-Backed Horse. "You'd trade your mother for two horses."
Wanderer smiled, anticipating a fight. He had learned not to bring up Ho-say's mother. The man had no sense of humor about her. But this time Tafoya let it pass. He continued with his news.
"Envoys from the Great White Father of the United States have met with Old Owl and Pahayuca and Santa Ana. Old Owl is away now, on a long trip to the lodge of the Great Father in Washington."
"Where is Wah-sin-tone, Ho-say?"
"Alií está. Lejos." Tafoya nodded and pouted again, this time toward the east, as though Washington lay somewhere in the country of the Wichita. "Nocona, Wanderer, my brother. "I hear you have a son, an infant. Now you don't need the yellow hair anymore. I'll give you a good price for her." José saw Wanderer stiffen, saw the rage gathering in his hard, black eyes. He was so protective and possessive of that woman. One would think she was a prize horse, the way he treated her. "Amigo." He held up a thin hand in the sign of peace. "I was only teasing. I have nothing left to trade anyway. Your women have taken everything. They almost trampled Chino as they fought to get to the wagons. They'll leave me a poor and broken man. Such advantage they take of me."
"To trample Chino, one would have to trample also his machete," pointed out Deep Water.
"And no one takes advantage of you. Your soul is a lump of lead and you would gladly trade it for a good price."
"And you would buy it, Sore-Backed Horse. I wish my soul were lead. Lead brings a good price indeed." José turned to Wanderer. "Later I'll come to your lodge to see your son. I hear he's handsome, like his father."
"Be careful, Wanderer. He may try to steal little Quanah to sell to the Pawnee," said Sore-Backed Horse.
"He wouldn't dare," said Deep Water. "Wears Out Moccasins would come after him with her battleax."
"If Wears Out Moccasins is here, your son is safe, amigo. Once she thought I had cheated her, and almost broke every fragile bone in my body with a shovel that I had just given her."
The men rose, stretched, and walked toward camp. The warriors and the Mexicans had tired of baiting El Bravo and were drifting toward the cooking fires too. Spaniard held his gored arm gingerly as he walked. The smell of coffee was strong, and Wanderer's stomach rumbled. Piles of crisp hump ribs and tongues waited for them. Every man would eat at least five pounds of meat. Then they would lie around the fire and talk until dawn.
Around their own fires the women would be studying
José's stiff sample cards of beads. Each card unfolded to show examples of the different colors and sizes. The women would take hours deciding what they wanted. Already they were wrapping themselves in the coarse, heavy buff and brown and blue-striped blankets he had brought. They would be happily comparing their new finery and kitchen trinkets. It would be a pleasant night.
For acres in all directions the sprawling camp was astir. The women of Wanderer's band were toppling their lodges, shouting and laughing and racing to see which groups would finish first. And probably betting some of their new trade goods on the outcome, thought Wanderer. The huge lodge covers lay all over the ground, along with piles of rawhide food boxes, bags, painted buffalo robes, bone and horn utensils, axes, kettles, the envelope-shaped wardrobe pouches, and hundreds of other things. The horses stood patiently amid the noise and confusion, flicking their ears at the horseflies. Their mistresses lashed the travois poles to their sides and piled baggage on their backs.
Children were lifted into place on other ponies, and the smallest, those one to two years old, were tied in place. Other children were stowed into domed willow cages on travois. The older boys ran hither and yon, dodging between their elders. Some of the warriors, painted and decked in feathers, charged through the flattened village, sometimes two or three abreast, racing their horses. The dogs lay panting in whatever shade they could find, yelping and running with their tails between their legs when someone stepped on them by mistake.
The Comancheros were packing up too. They lifted the huge burdens, using their knees as fulcrums, their arms and bodies as levers. With grunts and shouts and curses, they threw them over the mules' backs. Then, bracing their feet against the animals' sides, they tightened the wide straps of woven sea grass, pulling them until they gripped like ladies' corsets. They tied crupper lines from the pack saddles around under the tails to steady the loads and keep them from sliding forward. The cruppers cut cruelly into the animals' flesh, and many of them bled.
Tafoya now owned the ungainly carts that the little trader had dreamed of seven years before as he sat in Sun Name's lodge, bargaining for Rachel, the white-eyes woman. He remembered her with a certain amount of affection. She was largely responsible for his success, she and the price she had brought.
There were curses and shouts and singing, the crack of whips or the thunk of stout sticks against mules' flanks. There was the bawling of animals and the grating squeals of the carts' axles. And over it all Wanderer could hear the delicate jingling of the bell on the madrina, the bell mare.
"Que lio, amigo mio. What a wonderful riot. And the madrina stands quietly through it all. You should have a madrina, a bell mare, for your herds."
"Yes, and tell everyone where the ponies are so they'll have no trouble stealing them."
"Seriously, Wandering One. The mules love that bell mare. They'll follow her anywhere. Mules form the most outrageous attachments. They're like women that way. Sinverguenzas. Shameless. They bestow their affections on someone, even someone not of their station at all. And when they do, beware, hombre. Don't try to change them. They maintain their love as steadfast as the mountains. I have seen mules devoted to colts, to dogs. To buffalo calves. Even to a duck once."
Wanderer laughed.
"Truly. The whole herd followed that duck everywhere. They are like women, wonderful beasts. Stubborn, loyal, stupid. Just like women.
"Chino, beat that maldito mule." José pointed imperiously with his bone-handled quirt. "That one. Hit him hard." He turned back to Wanderer. "But like women, they become spoiled, lazy, if you don't beat them regularly.
"My men are ready to go." Tafoya reached out his right hand, and Wanderer clasped his wiry forearm just below the elbow. Tafoya did likewise, clapping him on the shoulder with his left hand, in the Comanchero manner. Then, standing on tiptoe, he grabbed Wanderer in an abrazo, hugging him first to one side, then to the other.
"When will we see you again, Ho-say?"
"Same time next year, amigo." He considered the bluffs around them thoughtfully. "And next year I'll build a little cave up there in the cliff. It'll be a storeroom, with barred windows and a little roof. That way I can keep my merchandise dry and safe from... let's say coyotes. And I can meet more bands here.
"Remember, jefe, what I said about the horses and mules and cattle. Steal a lot of cattle. I'll bring you guns if you'll bring me stock."
"Not just guns. Repeating guns."
"Entendido, amigo. Understood. ¡Dios te leeve, y la virgen y todos los santos! God carry you!" he shouted. As he rode away in the wake of his ragtag caravan, Tafoya waved his arm in a broad sweep, a motion vaguely representing a cross.
Wanderer rode to find Naduah. She and Gathered Up were just loading the last pack mule. The arched wooden frames of the pack saddle fitted so snugly over the rawhide pads that there was no need for a cinch. Gathered Up handed Naduah the goods and she lashed them tightly. They worked efficiently together. The process of moving had been shaved down to its barest essentials. They knew where each small item would best fit in the packs.
Lance was walking his pony slowly through the campsite, calling out the marching instructions. Wanderer had been so occupied with Tafoya and his traders that he hadn't had a chance to tell Naduah where they would be going. He rode next to her now as they led the procession away from Cache Creek. As usual, she carried his lance and shield.
"Lance says we're headed for the Pease River," she said.
"Yes. I think that's where we'll hunt this fall. It's between the land of the Quohadi and the Tenawa. And there are buffalo there."
"It's pretty country."
"Then you approve?"
"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I approve?"
"You might like some other place better."
"No. I'm happy anywhere, as long as you're with me. And I think I've seen all the country between the Cimarron and Mexico."
"I suppose I am a wanderer." He smiled. "I have more than one reason, you know.
"What's the reason, besides the fact that you're looking for your own territory and you like to roam?"
"I worry that someday traders will find you and try to take you back. Or they'll tell soldiers. I want to make it as difficult as possible for them to get you."
"No one's going to get me. They've forgotten all about me. I have one request, though."
"What's that?"
"I want to winter with my family, with Pahayuca's band. I want to see Takes Down The Lodge and Medicine Woman and Sunrise again. And Something Good and Weasel. I want to show them our son."
"We'll camp with them this winter."
CHAPTER 42
Wanderer stared at the pictures crudely sketched with charcoal on the folded piece of bark. He had found it in the largest cottonwood. It was wedged into a cut made by a hatchet.
"Pahayuca's planning to camp on the Canadian. That's good. When we get bored this winter we can raid the wagons headed for Santa Fe."
"Here's a track." Naduah dismounted to look at it. The hoof marks were near the cottonwood, at the edge of the churned trail left by a village on the move. "They were here only two days ago, in the morning." She brushed at the sand that had dried on the blades of grass crushed by the horse's hooves. The brittle coat of sand grains meant that the grass had been wet with morning dew when the hoofprints were left. And there had been no rain or dew since two mornings before.
"Pahayuca's still riding that bay. The horse with big feet," said Naduah. "But he won't last much longer. He's starting to favor his left forefoot." Naduah stared at the tracks, tears stinging her eyes. The rounded impression in the soft sand brought back a flood of memories. The hoofprint was as familiar to her as the patterns of stitching in the top of her lodge.
When they rode into the abandoned campsite, they knew immediately that it was last used by the People, even though the Kiowa also preferred open timber for their villages. The fire holes were fifteen inches across rather than twenty-four. And each round lodge site had four la
rger holes rather than three, where the main poles had been. Naduah could tell from a distance if an occupied camp was Kiowa or one of the People's by the pattern of the lodge poles. When the Kiowa women laid their smaller poles against the three larger ones, they formed a spiral where they jutted out from the smoke hole. The People's poles grouped between the four main ones.
Naduah spurred Wind and moved ahead of Wanderer.
"Woman, where are you going?" he shouted after her.
"I want to see them. Hurry!" He laughed and obediently squeezed Night lightly with his knees. The pony broke into a canter to catch up with her, and the rest of the band quickened their pace. Wanderer grimaced as he thought of the days of travel to come. In their haste Naduah and Star Name would be dismantling the lodges around him and Deep Water and Wolf Road as they slept each morning. There would be no peace until they found Pahayuca's people and their own family.
"Star Name, come on!" Naduah shouted and waved her arms. "They're only two days ahead of us." Star Name came at a gallop, and the two of them took off across the hills in a race with the wind, their ponies' manes and tails streaming behind them. Naduah stood on Wind's back.
"I'm giving you a handicap," she shouted to Star Name.
Wanderer shook his head as he watched them grow smaller in the distance. Naduah was a good mother most of the time. But it was fortunate that Wears Out Moccasins watched over Quanah. He was riding in front of Wears Out Moccasins now. But soon he would be old enough to ride tied onto a pony by himself.
The group of women and girls gathered near Takes Down's lodge was larger than usual. They claimed they were there to work, but not much work was being done. Sewing projects lay forgotten on hides scattered around the area. Awls were stuck into half-finished seams. Half-tanned skins lay with their scrapers on top of them. Most of the scrapers were metal now, as were the awls and the needles. And some of the women's clothes were being made of the blue and white striped ticking and red calicos that the traders brought. The blouses wrinkled and soiled quickly, but the women liked their bright colors.
Ride the Wind Page 50