"That was mean."
"Be glad it happened here and not in front of your friends. They'd never let you forget it. They'd bring it up when you're all old men passing the pipe in your smoking lodge." Wanderer smiled at him. "What did you learn?"
"To pay attention to my horse."
The two of them headed for the river, where Raven drank and Wanderer and Quanah rubbed him down with handfuls of grass. Quanah concentrated on grooming the pony's legs, because that was about as high as he could reach.
"When we finish here," he asked, "will you show me how to shoot? Sore-Backed Horse said he'd show me, but he said you were the best."
"While I tether Raven, bring some buffalo chips."
Quanah darted about among the bushes near the river until he had gathered an armload of the large, round, dried disks.
"Now set one of them on edge against the trunk of that cotton-wood, and come here."
The child did as he was told. He knew he must take advantage of every minute with his father.
"Let me see your bow, son." Wanderer held it up, measuring. It didn't quite reach the boy's waist.
"You're growing fast. You need a new one. Either I or Sore-Backed Horse will make one for you. Show me how you nock an arrow and draw the bow. Get used to holding your arrows in your left hand with the points down. Then you won't cut yourself when you reach for one in a hurry." Wanderer knelt for a better view. He put his arms around his son to show him the proper position. "When you nock the bow, grip the string, not the arrow. That's why we cut a narrow slit in the shaft so the arrow will fit tightly around the cord. You don't have to pinch it between your fingers.
"The arrow shaft should rest loosely between your first two fingers, with your thumb on the butt end of the arrow to steady it."
The child concentrated on drawing the bowstring. His tongue stuck out of one corner of his mouth, and his eyes squinted.
"Relax, gray eyes. Use both hands and arms together. The left pushes while the right pulls. Rest your left forefinger lightly on the other end of the shaft, where it crosses the bow. You must learn to feel if the shaft is in the center of the bowstring without looking at it.
"Draw the arrow quickly and smoothly, in one sweeping motion, like a sapling that snaps back when bent down and then released. Don't spend time aiming or you'll lose control. Shoot first for distance. Build power. The aim will come. Nock, raise, draw, and fire. Try it."
The first arrow went wide.
"You're pulling up at the last minute. Do it without thinking about it. Do it as easily as you wave at your friends. Or steal stew from the pot." Quanah tried again.
"I came close that time!"
"Close isn't good enough. Close won't fill the kettle." Wanderer picked up his own bow and quiver. He had an arrow in the air and arching toward the target before Quanah could even get his nocked. The arrow struck the middle of the chip and shattered it Quanah ran to replace it.
All afternoon they shot. By the end of it, Wanderer was rolling chips for Quanah to shoot at while in motion. As they practiced, Wanderer passed on a little of what he knew, as much as he thought the child could learn in a day.
"When your arrows are damp, aim higher. They don't go as far wet. And try to keep them dry to begin with. Dampness loosens the sinew wrapping on the feathers. I prefer the feathers to be tied down only at each end so they bow a little in the middle. I think they fly better, but Sore-Backed Horse disagrees. Try them each way and decide for yourself.
"The arrow is the important thing. Any bow will shoot. But never be satisfied with an arrow that isn't perfectly balanced. Or the wrong size. You can measure it by holding it against your arm. It should be the same as the distance from your elbow to your fingertips."
Finally the sun sank almost to the horizon and cool shadows crawled over the plains, chilling the sweat on their bodies.
"It's time to go home," said Wanderer. "Stand perfectly still and I'll pick you up." He untied Raven and rode off a hundred feet. He turned the pony and galloped toward the child, who stood stolidly in his path. Even when it looked as though he would be run down and crushed under the pounding hoofs, Quanah didn't flinch. He watched his father with his solemn eyes, the color of gathering storm clouds, and tensed to help with the pickup. Raven passed so close his wind would have fluttered Quanah's long breechclout if he had been there. But Wanderer had swooped down and swung him onto the pony's back.
Quanah wrapped his small arms around his father's waist, and they raced for the village. As usual, the Noconi were camped on the highest hill along that part of the Pease River. As they approached the first lodges, Quanah gripped his father's shoulders and raised himself into a crouch. He planted his feet firmly and slowly stood, bracing his knees against Wanderer's back.
"Mother! Mother! Look!"
Naduah watched them careen through the camp, scattering children and dogs in front of them. Then she reached down and scooped up Pecan, who was tugging on a piece of rawhide. His favorite puppy was on the other end of it, and they had both been growling at each other and worrying the leather between them. Naduah held Pecan astraddle her hip as Raven braked suddenly in front of her, rocking back on his haunches. The puppy tucked his tail between his legs and skittered, yipping, around the tent. But like Quanah, Naduah didn't flinch, even though dust kicked up by the pony's hooves coated her moccasins and made her sneeze.
Almost before Raven stopped, Quanah launched himself at his mother. He screamed a childish, high-pitched war cry as he leaped, arms outstretched. Naduah laughed and sidestepped, bouncing Pecan on her hip as she feinted. Quanah landed in a crouch to cushion his fall and rolled headfirst into a somersault. He jumped to his feet talking, telling her about his afternoon.
Gathered Up arrived with an armload of grass for Raven and Night, who was already tethered outside the lodge. Star Name and Deep Water and their daughter, Turtle, walked from their tent. Wolf Road trailed hungrily behind. Quanah dominated the conversation as they went inside to eat.
When the meal was over and the men sat talking and smoking, Naduah and Star Name walked outside and stood in the fresh air. To the west, the last of the sunset's lavender stain was being washed over with deep violet streaked with gold at the horizon. Late summer insects had started their evening concert, and from the hills below them the two sisters could hear the barking of thousands of prairie dogs, just before they dove into their holes for the night. The cool, gentle wind caressed their faces. Somewhere outside the village, a young man was serenading his beloved with a flute made of cedar. Its pleasant, whistling notes in a plaintive minor key wound sinuously through the camp.
All around, the plain rose and fell in huge surges, like the swells of a boundless ocean, rolling to meet the soaring dome of the sky. The plains' immensity should have dwarfed the People as they traveled constantly across its vastness. But it only made them more self-confident, more certain that they could survive anything. It's wild beauty made them more stubborn in defense of their right to roam it at will. It was their home, and they loved it. All of it.
When the last light of the sun faded and the stars began to glitter, the two women went back inside the softly glowing lodge. In the time they had stood outside, neither of them had spoken a word.
CHAPTER 47
Wanderer sat in Pahayuca's council lodge and looked around him. He had the disorienting feeling that he had gone back in time ten years, to 1840. This council reminded him of the one he had sat at then, after the Texans had killed most of the Penateka's leaders at the Council House massacre in San Antonio. Even Buffalo Piss was here, as recalcitrant and adamant as ever. Most of the faces at that council ten years ago had been new to Wanderer. And many of the faces he saw today were new also.
As Naduah and Wanderer and their war party had traveled south toward Mexico, they had found Pahayuca's band back in the country along the upper Colorado River where they had always hunted. Cholera had run its course, and the Wasp band seemed as large and as prosperous as ever. But
Wanderer knew the appearance was a false one. He could sense the difference even before Pahayuca talked about it.
Pahayuca was talking now. He hadn't changed much. He was too fat for wrinkles and too imperturbable to show the horrors he had seen. Deep Water had commented on how large the band was, and Pahayuca was telling him why.
"Many of them are refugees from the white man's disease, the sickness they call ka-ler-ah. It hit us too. Many of the Wasps died of it. But not as many as the other bands. For months the survivors have been coming to us. They have set their lodges up at the outskirts of our camp until there are as many of us as in the old days.
"But it's not the same. These people have lost parts of their families. They have lost their leaders. They have lost their faith in the old medicine to save them. Vomiting, bowels that flow, or a fever sends them fleeing in panic, even from their own loved ones. And the white traders bring more and more wih-skee. Many of the warriors crave it now.
"But the Texan leaders are weak these days. Not like La-mar and the Ranger, El Diablo. Their big council in Aus-tin sends men to make honey talk and give us presents. They expect us to touch the writing stick and give away the People's land as though it were horses or buffalo robes. They insist that I and the other leaders speak for all the People. We have explained to them over and over that we cannot do this. But they are fools, the white men. They hear only what they want to her. And they do not keep their promises. So we continue to raid. And they give us more presents to stop the raiding."
When he had finished, Buffalo Piss took the pipe and spoke.
"The United States has made a treaty with the Texans. They say they are all one tribe now. But I don't think so. The United States sends tabay-boh, soldiers, that aren't like the Tejanos at all. Tabay-boh soldiers are walking soldiers. Or walking soldiers on horses. They have handsome clothes, bright red and blue and orange. But they don't know how to fight. And they don't know how to ride. They use old guns that are inaccurate, and have a short range. We keep just outside that range and taunt them. They do not hunt us the way the Texans do, and they don't attack our villages.
"I would rather fight the Cheyenne or the Apache or the Osage. Fighting tabay-boh soldiers is like fighting children." Buffalo Piss turned to Wanderer. "We are glad to see our brothers, the Noconi. What are your plans? If you're raiding into Mexico, many of our young men will want to join you."
"We're going to Mexico to raid and to look for the bones of Echo Of A Wolfs Howl, Arrow Point's son and my wife's brother. He fell ill there of ka-ler-ah. We do not know if he died. We are going to find out what happened to him. And we will raid the Texas settlements on the way down and back. Your men are welcome to ride with us. We'll raid as we did last year. We'll divide into smaller groups, strike the Texans, steal and kill all we can, and run."
When the Noconi war party left the Wasps' encampment, their number had swelled. Twenty-five more warriors had joined them, some of them with their women and children.
"Now Quanah will have a few playmates," said Naduah as they rode out at the head of the procession. "I wish we had brought Pecan along. Medicine Woman and Takes Down The Lodge wanted to see him."
"He's better off with Star Name and Wears Out Moccasins at home. If Wears Out Moccasins doesn't spoil him. Did you have enough time with your family, golden one?"
"I never have enough time with them. But it was good to see them. To know they're safe."
"You were worried about them, weren't you?"
"Yes. Even if there had been no white man's sickness. I would have worried about Medicine Woman."
"She looked the same to me," said Wanderer.
"She never changes. And she still insists on doing everything for herself. But she's so old."
Gathered Up and Quanah joined them. Quanah was kicking his old horse's sides in a futile attempt to make him gallop like a war pony.
"Gathered Up," said Naduah, "did you sleep last night? You look tired."
"I'm all right. My throat is a little sore. Wanderer, when will we raid the Tejanos?"
"Soon. Why? Do you want to go?"
"Of course. I've had my vision. I'm a man now. It's time I started gathering horses."
"I'm going with Gathered Up," said Quanah loudly.
"Not yet, gray eyes," said Wanderer.
"I am too." Tears welled up in his cloudy eyes and threatened to rain on his cheeks. "I'll herd the ponies."
"Not yet."
Quanah glowered at his father. Wanderer looked at him mildly, the way a coyote will look at a camp dog that has become too familiar. The child lowered his face.
"Quanah," said Gathered Up, "will you take care of the horses I steal on the raid? I'll give you one of them if you do."
"All right." His face brightened. "Can I pick the one I want?"
"I'll pick first, little brother, then you."
They rode off again, Quanah discussing horses as though, in his six years of life, he had learned everything there was to know about them.
When Wanderer and his small raid party returned. Gathered Up rode near the head of it, in a place of honor. A fresh scalp of blond hair dangled from his lance. The Noconi and their allies danced far into the night, celebrating Gathered Up's first coup.
Wanderer and Naduah and the others threw presents at his feet as he danced in the center of the circle. Some pitched sticks onto the dancing area, each one representing the ponies they would give the new warrior. Anyone could grab the presents out of the circle and keep them for themselves. But not many did. It was considered demeaning.
Finally, after midnight, Naduah and her family lay down to sleep in their brush lean-tos. She awakened an hour or so later and lay listening.
"Naduah. Mother," Gathered Up whispered to her from his own shelter.
"Yes, Gathered Up," she called softly. She rose and put on her moccasins. She wrapped her robe around her in the cold night air and walked to his bed.
"I feel bad." There was pain in his big dark eyes. And his long, curly black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His face seemed thinner.
Naduah put her hand to his cheek.
"Have you vomited? Have your bowels run?"
"No. It's my throat. I can hardly swallow." Even talking seemed excruciating for him.
"I noticed that you didn't eat tonight."
"I haven't eaten in two days. I can't swallow."
"I'll be back with my medicine."
She returned with her bag and built up a small fire for its light and warmth. She sat by it and searched through the tiny pouches inside until she found the one with the crushed bull-nettle berries. They were mildly narcotic, and she used them often for sore throats and toothaches.
"Swallow these, Gathered Up. And eat some more in the morning."
The boy tried to swallow and gagged.
"I can't."
Naduah mixed them with fat to make them go down easier and held them out to him.
"You must."
He tried again and got some of them down.
Naduah kicked aside the bigger stones. With a stick she scraped away the cactus and lay down, still wrapped in her robe.
"I'll stay here with you. Call me if you need me."
The first light of dawn was spreading across the east when Naduah felt a hand shaking her. She sat up to find Gathered Up ashen and in agony. His breath was coming in gasps, and while she watched, his face began to turn red, then purple with suffocation. She rummaged frantically through her bag and pulled out a hollow quill. She knelt by the boy's bed.
"Open your mouth."
"What is it, golden one?" Wanderer stood over her.
"He can't breathe. Something is choking him." Gathered Up flinched as Naduah jammed the quill down his throat, past whatever was blocking it. He closed his eyes in pain, but kept his face impassive.
"Is he choking on a piece of meat?"
"He hasn't eaten in almost two days."
Gathered Up lay back, his eyes still closed, and his thin che
st heaving. He was pulling the cool air in short gasps through the tube and into his lungs.
"Wanderer, build the fire up and heat the broth from last night's stew. I don't want to leave him."
Wanderer obeyed. He never questioned her powers with medicine. A few minutes later he brought some broth, steaming in a big, curved horn ladle. Naduah sipped some and leaned over Gathered Up. She put her mouth to his and blew the broth through the tube and down his throat. Most of it ran off his chin or spattered on his cheeks, but some made it inside him. Patiently she repeated the process again and again until most of the broth was gone.
"What do you think it is, golden one?"
"I don't know. Open your mouth as wide as you can. Gathered Up." She peered in, turning his head to catch the morning's rays. "It's swollen in there. And the back of his throat is coated with a thick, white skin. It looks dry and hard, and the flesh around it is red and inflamed. Wanderer, I've never seen anything like this."
"Can you help him?"
"I don't know. Call Gets To Be An Old Man."
Gets To Be An Old Man had come with them when they left the Wasps' land. He was so old he was entirely bald except for a few long, snowy hairs that sprouted here and there on his wrinkled scalp. They looked like the beaten, bleached fibers of the agave before they're twisted into sisal rope. He had brought no weapons with him when he joined the raiding party. He obviously wasn't interested in stealing horses. Naduah asked him why he was coming along. He had pointed a quavering, skeletal finger at her, as though waving a chicken bone in her face. Then he swept the finger in a wide arc around him.
"I want to see the old hunting grounds before I die. Daughter." And every day he rode off to one side of the party. He rode by himself, on a swaybacked old gray that looked as bony and dejected as he did. Old Man mumbled to himself the entire trip, pointing out each hill and ravine, each river and bluff. He looked as though he were instructing a band of young men about to go on their first raid, describing each day's terrain for them.
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