"Christ on the cross, how long's this gonna last, McKenna?"
"A day anyways. Usually three. Never know exactly. Mebbe a week."
Rain began seeping under the tent, but everyone was already too wet to care. There was nothing they could do about it anyway. They sat on the canvas skirts of the tent, helping to hold it down with their weight. They told stories to pass the time, shouting to be heard over the wailing wind and the detonating thunder. About midnight, after the thunderstorm had passed, another scream soared over the wind. McKenna got up.
"Good God Almighty. What was that?" someone asked from the darkness in the tent.
"You goin' out there, McKenna?"
"Shore. Hit's stuffy in here. Thought I'd jest take a stroll and have a smoke. Mebbe check the horse pickets and see what the hell's makin' 'em scream like that. Anybody wanna come along?"
"I'll go with you, Mac."
"You're crazy. It's ten below out there," said a muffled voice from among the anonymous shapes in the tent.
"Who farted?" asked another.
McKenna and Casey stepped out into the wind and staggered as the full force of it hit them. It was snowing, adding to the foot already fallen. They felt their way along in the dark, their path lit by the fires in the tents. McKenna's foot hit the body of a mule, the last on the picket line. He felt around it.
"Dead. Frozen. Solider'n my sister's biscuits."
"Here's another one," said Casey.
Then they saw the eyes. Two, huge, glowing yellow eyes.
"Sweet Mother of God! They're as big as mess plates."
"Jest consider the size of the animal wrapped around 'em."
With an unearthly shriek, the cat leaped at them. They both fired at once, emptying their revolvers into it. The panther fell dead, almost at their feet. Although it was too dark to see it, there was foam around its muzzle.
"Ferget the horses," said McKenna, backing toward the tents. McKenna's heart didn't stop pounding until his hand brushed the stiff canvas of a Sibley. He pulled aside the flap and poked his head in.
"You gentlemen got any tobaccy you'd like to trade for coffee?"
"Come in or stay out. Sergeant."
"Jesus, it's colder than a polar bear's toenails."
McKenna and Casey crowded in among the officers, made equal to them by adversity. Someone passed them a cigarette from among the glowing points of light in the tent. The two sergeants shared it.
"Coffee won't do us any good," said someone. "Some damned fool forgot the stove."
"What was the noise out there, Sergeant McKenna?"
"Panther. Big'un. Dead now, though."
Casey hefted his empty revolver.
"Thank God for Colt's repeaters," he said.
"Well, sir, you know how it is," spoke up a young lieutenant. "God made some men big and some men small. But Colonel Colt made them equal."
By the time Company A pulled into Camp Cooper, the glitter was gone. They were so covered with dust and dried mud that it was almost impossible to tell what color their uniforms or their horses really were. The sky was a leaden gray and a fine mist began to fall on the barren hills. The first part of the fort they saw was the cemetery. Sergeant McKenna rode out of line to read one of the markers aloud.
O pray for the soldier, you kind-hearted stranger,
He has roamed the prairie for many a year.
He has kept the Comanches away from your cabins,
And chased them far over the Texas frontier.
On the bare, scoured square between the rows of half-built wooden, canvas, and mud barracks, five men marched wearily around and around in punishment drill. Two of them dragged balls and chains. A sixth had fainted, and lay Where he'd fallen. A crowd of soldiers and dogs had gathered outside the headquarters building, and there was no one to greet the new troops. Then one man separated himself, mounted his horse, and rode to meet them.
Lee sat straight as a ramrod on his big gray. He managed to look washed and starched in spite of everything. He and Colonel Neill saluted each other and introduced themselves.
"Sweet Jesus," said Neill. "Am I glad to see you. Troops that actually speak English. All I have are Irish potato-eaters and thick-skulled Germans."
"Glad to be of service. Colonel Neill. What's going on over there?" Lee nodded toward the cluster of men.
"Come over. You should see this. And so should your men. Why don't you have them file by? Stand back. Move." He elbowed through the crowd. "Let the new troops, fresh from the east, see what kind of enemy they'll be facing out here. Not that you'll actually be facing them," he muttered to Lee. "You'll rarely even see them. I doubt that West Point prepared you for this."
The men parted to expose a naked body lying at their feet. Lee fought back the need to gag.
"They're beasts, the Comanches," Neill said casually. "There's not a drop of pity or humanity or gratitude in them." He nodded toward the corpse. "An enlisted man. Strayed from his wood detail and was captured. Probably by the same Comanches we fed all winter. We just found him thirty-five miles from here. The Indians had staked him out on his back and built a fire on his chest and stomach. They cooked their meal over it, seasoning it with his screams, I suppose."
Neill pulled a small derringer from his pocket.
"May I suggest. Colonel Lee, that each of you carry one of these to use on yourself, should the necessity arise. Your men can pitch their tents over there. They'll have to build their own barracks, just as mine had to. And they'd better hurry. You must have already had a taste of our winters, with that norther that went through. The real thing will be here soon.
"Lumber's a problem. Has to be hauled ten miles. We've cleared the area around here building this. And the sanitation situation is bad. The water's often undrinkable. The aklali in it will give you the flux. At my last command, over one hundred men died each year of disease and dysentery. Each man has to pay for anti-scorbutics by having deductions taken from his already inadequate rations. Not many do it, so there's a lot of scurvy. The dispensary's a pesthole.
"Boredom creates discipline problems. One out of every ten men is on punishment detail at any given time. Rabble. That's what we have here. The lowest scum the east had to send.
"And the rations. By the time the freighters get here the bacon has enough maggots to walk in by itself. And the flour's crawling with weevils. Winters are bad, but the summers are worse. I heard you served in Mexico, Lee, but if you've never spent a summer in Texas, you can't imagine what it's like. Your eyeballs will sunburn. When I die and go to hell, I'll take it amiss if the good Lord doesn't subtract from my allotted time the years I've spent here.
"By the way, Colonel—"
"Yes," said Lee mildly.
"Welcome to Texas."
CHAPTER 49
Wind was too old for hard riding. But she was still useful for gentling freshly caught wild mustangs. She was tied now to a young colt, black spattered with white patches and spots. The pinto had been forced to follow Wind for three days, since the afternoon Quanah had pointed him out to his father.
"That's the one I want."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"He's not very handsome."
"I don't care. I like his look."
"He doesn't look friendly to me. Have you thought of a name for him, or will you wait until you know you can ride him?"
"I can ride him. His name is Polecat. He'll be a good horse. He's smart and he's fast and he's agile. I've been studying him."
Wanderer smiled to himself. His instructions had taken hold. Quanah had indeed picked a good pony. And he had had to study the horse from the length of his twenty-foot tether line. Polecat wouldn't let anyone closer than that, with the possible exception of Naduah. She had a way of gaining the confidence of even the wildest pony. And this was a wild one.
Wanderer had caught the pinto by creasing him, something many men tried but few could do. He had shot him through the muscular part of the neck, just above the vert
ebrae. The shot paralyzed him for two or three minutes, long enough to get several lines on him. If Wanderer's aim had been off a hair's breadth, the spine would have been fractured. Many mustangs ended up as evening stew that way.
When the time came to gentle the pony, Quanah came looking for his mother.
"Why don't you ask your father or Sore-Backed Horse or Wolf Road to help you?"
"Because all three of them said you were the best at breaking ponies."
So Naduah had put down her mending and come with him. Now Polecat regarded them malevolently from around behind Wind's tail. His forelock fell in long bangs, giving him the look of a determined boy. He was small. Wanderer could have rested his elbows on the pony's back. He was wiry and tough looking, with a big barrel, thin legs, and a mane and tail matted with burs. The bones in his narrow head jutted out prominently, and his large, pointed ears were pricked forward. His erratic markings made him look as though someone had dropped a bucket of whitewash on him. His thick, dusty winter coat was coming out in patches in the warm weather of late spring, making him seem bedraggled and motheaten.
"Quanah, do you want to lead him to the river and mount him in the water?"
"No, I'll ride him here." Since his visit with his uncle on his Mexican ranch five years before, Quanah had been determined to break his first real pony the way the vaqueros did.
"Then we should put a surcingle on him and a line around his withers and chest for you to brace your knees under. Let's see if you're as good with your lariat as you've been boasting. I'll make him buck, and you lasso his hind feet."
Actually, Quanah had been doing more than boasting. He had ambushed and lassoed Naduah and Gathered Up and Quail and Pecan at every possible opportunity. He would lurk in the branches of the trees over the trails and drop his noose over their heads when they walked by. He lassoed the dogs until they all gave him a wide berth. Even the foolish chickens avoided him.
He coiled his rope in the Mexican fashion and stalked up behind Polecat. The pony crowded against Wind and watched the boy from the corner of one big, bright eye. Quanah hummed casually to himself until Naduah made a move toward the pony. Polecat bucked reflexively, and Quanah flicked the rope over his rear hooves. The line moved too fast for the eye to follow, and Quanah jerked it tight before Polecat realized what had happened.
He looked chagrined, and lassoing his forelegs was harder. Finally they had him tethered between two trees, his front and rear legs spread, keeping him off balance. Naduah untied his headstall and led Wind away. Then she fastened another long line to his neck and snaked one end of it around a tree for leverage. She cinched the wide leather surcingle around him and tied a second cord around his chest. Quanah vaulted on, disdaining the stirrups. Polecat flinched and laid his ears back. The boy wedged his knees under the cord and gripped tightly with his knees.
"Ready?" asked Naduah.
"Ready." And Naduah untied the rear line. Polecat didn't move.
"He's tame already. What did you do to him, Mother? He isn't going to buck."
Naduah untied the front line and flicked it to slacken it around the hooves. But the hooves weren't there. Polecat reared back, then tipped forward until he looked like he was standing on his upper lip. He whirled in place like a drunken top. He folded in the middle and took off on a series of jolting hops. Still clinging to the line, Naduah was dragged after him. She ran to keep up, laughing at Quanah, who was bouncing around like a drop of water in a hot skillet.
Polecat danced gracefully on his rear hooves, then suddenly reversed ends. He rocked on his forelegs, sending his rear ones skyward. Quanah finally lost his hold and soared off in a wide arc. He bounced when he hit, and lay still, taking inventory of his bones and letting the pain subside before he moved. Polecat walked over to him and solicitously whiffled in his ear. Then he began searching for the roots that Quanah sometimes brought and left him.
When Naduah arrived, Quanah was rolling on the ground and laughing. Polecat was still tickling him, blowing on his stomach and ribs and nuzzling his waist. He was nobbling at the bag of lunch Quanah had tied there. Naduah stroked the pony's neck and offered him a thistle to distract him. While he gingerly ate it, his eyes closed in ecstasy, Quanah rolled away and stood. He limped back to them, picking the bigger cactus spines out of his forearm.
"I brought my medicine bag," said Naduah. "I thought you might need it. I'll put salve on that scrape." Quanah's knees were bloody and raw.
"Later. I'm going to ride him again."
While Polecat was digesting a second thistle, Quanah leaped onto his back again. The pony gave a few halfhearted skips that ended in a general frolic. Then he pranced at the end of the neck line that Naduah still held. He circled her at a trot.
"I'm going to untie the neck line," shouted Quanah. "He learns so fast, I'll have him following knee commands by the end of the afternoon." He leaned forward to loosen the knot. Polecat, with supple grace and economy of motion, flipped the child over his head. Quanah lay on his back on the ground, looking up in astonishment. Naduah had to sit before she fell down laughing.
"This will take longer than I thought," said Quanah grimly. Polecat stood with his head down docilely. He looked as though the fall had been a terrible mistake, for which he was heartily sorry.
"Gray eyes, you picked the smartest horse I've seen since Night. He doesn't even signal his intentions with his ears. He fooled me too."
The child stood and brushed himself off. He strode toward the pony again, trying not to limp.
"Wait, gray eyes. Let it rest a few minutes." Naduah studied Polecat.
"I have to get back on him. I have to show him who's leading this party."
"I don't think that'll work with this one. He just wants you to know you haven't beaten him. He wants to be friends, but on his own terms. Why don't you take him to the river and water him, rub him down. Pick the burs out of him and clean him up. Talk to him as a friend. Then tomorrow I'll bet he'll let you ride him."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes."
"All right. If you say so." Quanah picked up the lead rope, but didn't pull on it. He draped it casually over his shoulder. Polecat whinnied for Wind to follow them. He had grown fond of the old mare in the three days they had been tied together. Naduah turned to go back to her mending and her gossip with Star Name.
"Mother, come with us. I'll cook us some grasshopper legs. "I don't understand how you boys can play all day on a meal of grasshopper legs. It seems like there'd be more meat on lizards."
"There is, but grasshopper legs taste better."
"Did you bring Little Bit to eat?"
Quanah looked at her in shock.
"I wouldn't eat Little Bit. He's the best wrestler in camp."
Naduah was aware of that. Quanah's area of the lodge was piled with items he had won betting on Little Bit. The boys often tied two grasshoppers together with a short piece of sinew and goaded them into either fighting or fleeing. The first insect jerked over onto his back lost. Quanah had won many matches with Little Bit, who was enormous, almost as big as his owner's fist. Quanah had named him Little Bit to lure other boys into betting on their own grasshoppers. But his reputation was so widespread in the band no one would fight him. Quanah was saving him for when they camped with outsiders.
Elaborating on the career he would have with Polecat, Quanah strode off beside Naduah. He had to run now and then to keep up with her long legs. The two ponies followed behind. Whenever Polecat thought he wasn't receiving enough attention, he butted the boy between the shoulderblades, nearly knocking him over.
Sergeant McKenna laid a gunnysack over his horse's back and carefully folded the saddle blanket over it, smoothing out the wrinkles. A galled horse meant punishment and, worse than that, scorn. But McKenna would have been careful anyway. Casey was trying to treat a sore on his mount with calomel. But when he blew the white powder into the wound, the high wind whipped it back in his face. He sneezed mightily.
"Mac, does
the wind blow like this all the time?"
"Naw. It'll blow this way fer a week or two. Then it'll change its mind and blow like hell fer a while. You'll get to where you find a steady diet of alkali dust right tasty. A man can get get used to anything, 'ceptin' skinnin'. I once't saw some Tonks skin a pris'ner alive. Pore feller died real soon after."
"Good Lord!"
"Your mount got maggots?"
"Yeah. I never saw anything like it. Those damned flies lay their eggs in every cut and sore they can find."
"They will do that. Oh, hell," muttered McKenna. "Here comes the bugler. Wish they'd lose that infernal horn. Those West Point officers can't take a crap without one, can they? I think Cap'n Oakes has a bugler standin' by to give a flurry and a fanfare when he farts."
"You know what Sam Houston says about West Point men. You might as well take a dunghill fowl's eggs and put them in eagles' nests and try to make eagles of them, as to try to make generals of boys who have no capacity by giving them military training."
"Well, to tell the truth, they ain't as bad as most. If they could jest be weaned away from their bugles, they'd do all right."
McKenna's woolen trousers were threadbare. They had been reinforced with buckskin at the inner thighs and the seat. His loose navy blue fatigue jacket was unbuttoned halfway and faded a deep mauve. There were dark stains under the arms, and the collar was frayed. He had washed that morning, but already there was dust in the week's worth of stubble on his face.
He threw his light California saddle over his steel gray's back, and tightened the cinch. He shook the large leather pad that had served him as a mattress and ground cloth and tossed that over the saddle. He fitted the hole in it over his pommel. It covered the saddle and the horse's back, protecting them both from rain.
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