As the landscape became increasingly unfamiliar, Constance began to doubt the wisdom of what she was doing. It was vaster and more intimidating than she had remembered, though she knew that if she followed the sun it would take her where she needed to go. The sun was also what Hank would have called “adversarial,” as he sometimes described her father; it was warmer than it was in the city, and with no eaves for shade. But she did not doubt the depth of her passion for Hank Gannon, despite his curious actions, and her complete and overwhelming desire to share with him anything he might face out here or in the future.
It is only his gallant nature that prohibited him from asking me to leave the comfort of my family home, she had decided. And then she thought with a touch of rancor, He must not have thought I would want to leave the loving bosom of my parents. Constance believed they did love her, of course. But she also knew that the Breens were a controlling family, set in their Old World ways of obedient daughters and social ascension. She would have thought that the clan, having been here since the Catholics landed in the Massachusetts colony and were promptly told to leave, nearly two centuries earlier, she would have thought the Breens would have assimilated better to the class-free ways of America. Perhaps they had, except where single daughters were concerned.
Her love and admiration drove her on. That and the fact that her father would probably throw her out anyway for borrowing his cart. Constance hoped the family’s personal horse and buggy would suffice until she returned. She didn’t have a plan but she only expected to be out here as long as it took to reach the arroyo, find Hank, and convince him to come back with her.
Or take me away, she thought daringly. In that case, the cart could be her dowry.
Constance was glad she was riding away from the sun, though the collar of her old riding blouse kept falling and she wished she had brought a scarf for the back of her neck. She had water in a canteen her father kept in the cart, but she wanted to conserve that in case she ended up staying out here more—
The horse stopped suddenly and shook its head. Constance jerked forward but braced herself with the heels of her laced-up boots. Before she had settled back she saw the problem: there was a rattlesnake under the shadowy lip of a flat rock. The horse bucked and the snake coiled into a defensive S-shape, its rattle erect, and the horse whinnied fearfully. Constance tugged the animal back, hoping to get out of striking range. The snake moved forward and only now Constance noticed a nest of young deeper under the slab.
The horse was refusing to settle, and that only antagonized the snake more. Without time to consider her options, Constance removed the gun from the blanket and fired two shots in front of the rattler. She did not intend to hit it, and didn’t; the snake withdrew, the shots caused the horse to bolt, and the cart flew past the danger in a moment. The escape was unplanned, but it had worked. Constance allowed the horse to run out its fear for a dozen or so yards, then whoaed it to a slow walk. Only then did she pay attention to her own accelerated heartbeat.
This venture was seeming like a poorer idea by the minute. She stopped the cart and looked out at the sloping mesa with the arroyo somewhere in its midst. And somewhere in that was Hank Gannon.
“Go on a little further,” she said aloud. “Maybe he heard the shots and will come to investigate.” That was what a mountain man who used to be a police officer would do, she reasoned.
Clicking inside her cheek and shaking the reins, she resumed her westward journey.
* * *
Buffalo Eyes, War Chief of the Comanche, was at the head of the war party when he raised a hand for the loose formation of riders to stop. He heard the shots over the drumbeat of the hooves and listened for the echo to die.
It was a quick death, originating not far to the east. He motioned for two of his braves to find out who was out there. He signaled the rest of the Comanche to continue along the arroyo until they found Roving Wolf. Eager to rejoin the party and driving their ponies hard, the two warriors charged across the plain into the noon sun.
* * *
Gannon heard gunfire, but it was not in the direction of the men he’d left or the Comanche. Two shots could be anything from target practice to bad hunting, none of which concerned him. He was riding hard to reach the eastern edge of the arroyo before the Comanche could vanish.
Moses Hawthorne had explained to Gannon that disappearing was a trait the Indians preferred over flight. It was governed by art, not fear. It was a skill mastered by the cleverest reptiles and insects but lost to prey like rabbits and deer. The pursued were eventually captured; the hidden, rarely. When he thought back on it, during the War, his nighttime tracking rarely involved Rebels in flight but in concealment.
Still, Gannon couldn’t be sure that’s what the Comanche would do. The man was not easy to read. He might have doubled back to meet the war party. Or he might have climbed to a place where he would be visible to Gannon—but which would also make the white man visible to the Indians. No brave was afraid to sacrifice his life for the good of the tribe . . . and for the benefit of his own honored afterlife.
The valley that cut through the mesa had a massive rockfall at the southern entrance, the collapse of some ancient wall that probably followed the Snake Water Creek. When he had arrived, Keel had given him a short history and geography lesson. This region was originally mapped by Spanish explorers who called sections like this “los Balcones,” describing the sharp, imposing terrain arranged like a series of balconies. Gannon wondered if that could have happened when the old volcanoes erupted. He had heard stories during the War of active volcanoes in Mexico causing earthquakes that caused the collapse of hills and plateaus miles distant.
He stopped and dismounted. The Indian could have gone back along the arroyo, climbed the rockslide, or entered the valley. If he had gone back to the arroyo, he might have taken the horse, exited here, and turned west to join the party. Buzzards continued to circle, but that was no evidence of anything except that the body of Moses Hawthorne was still there. Gannon saw no hoof prints or trampled scrub, so that scenario was unlikely. Going back for the horse was pointless, then. It would only hinder him in the narrow valley. Gannon walked his horse forward, looking at the ground for signs of the Indian’s passage. He saw none and looked ahead for flies; the Indian might have paused to relieve himself. There were no flies. He reached the portal of boulders framing the valley. Those at the base were shoulder-high and twice as large around. There were cracks and weatherworn edges where a man could grab on to hoist himself up. He knelt and looked for particles of limestone that might have been dislodged. There was nothing on the surface of either side. Not even the most skilled climber could have avoided cracking some of the fragile rock, especially the slabs that were marl—limestone that had been infused with clay.
Gannon rose, adjusted his hat to block the sun that was now angled toward the east.
“So you went ahead,” he decided.
That’s what Gannon would have done, too. The area was known to be spotted with underground caves, sinkholes, subterranean pools and rivers, and other geologic formations. The good news was that while the Comanche had a head start, chances were good he did not know this area any better than Gannon.
Rather than tire his horse and in order to stay close to the ground, Gannon decided to stay on foot, watching for clues of the Indian’s passage. He did not underestimate the danger of what he was doing. This was not like a showdown, where the parties were more or less equal. Or a battle, where there were maps or a superiority of arms or men. Every tracker knew that he was always playing catchup. The quarry had the lead, the advantage, the ability to surprise. And in the case of the Comanche, he had the kind of instincts and innate familiarity with the land that Gannon lacked. He did not take that disadvantage casually.
A warbler welcomed him from a nest somewhere on los Balcones to his right. It was safe there from ground-based predators. A tuft of golden fluff blowing in the wind suggested that a hatchling from a nest somewhere in
the valley had fallen victim to one of the shrikes Gannon had noticed earlier.
The position of the sun wiped clean any shadows that would exist in the valley during the morning and afternoon. It was now just stark, vertical rock wall, layer upon layer of sand-colored or ivory slabs piled high, all of it tinged with streaks of green. At times, it had the appearance of velvet. The sun regularly flashed on particles of crystal and mineral embedded in the limestone; they could just as easily be the shiny metal of a gun. Only their position on the face of the valley suggested their true nature. At the top, in a nook, he would have to pay closer attention. In an hour or so, when the sun moved west, there would be no illumination at all to Gannon’s left. And in another two hours, the mesa would block all direct sunlight. Spread out below were the smooth stones, large and small, deposited in the old creek bed. Here and there was the occasional hardy vegetation that fed on the noonday sun and sparse moisture. It would not be enough to watch for the Indian. Gannon also had to keep his eye on spots of shade that might conceal a venomous snake . . . or might afford him immediate cover if the Indian attacked. He was especially alert for caves, though the ringing gunshots that would produce was sure to cost him his hearing.
Gannon did not take the Comanche’s abilities lightly. He might be unarmed but that was relative to the white man’s way of thinking. He could have made a snare, he could drop a noose made from roots or his own clothing, he could drop a rock or start a landslide or toss a rattler or another skin full of scorpions.
Then there was a lesson Gannon had learned during the war, when it was dark or uniforms were so dirty or tattered it was difficult to tell one side from the other without an accent. He could not assume that whoever came at him was the bloody renegade. It was also possible that if anyone was out here, they might be used as a hostage . . . or worse. When Gannon had first arrived, he had been briefed about how, for a score of years, geologists had come and gone looking for underground petroleum for use in the manufacture of kerosene for lights. Drills were being used up north, in Pennsylvania, but Texas rock was tougher than that. The mechanisms broke. Even getting water from the ground was a chore. Nonetheless, scientists kept coming. A couple of month ago, one of them had been caught and gutted and left like a scarecrow at the edge of Kiowa territory in the north. To a white, that was enough to start a war. To an Indian, it was the equivalent of filing a paper at the assayer’s office. Still, it was impetus to get the Comanche before he got anyone else. That much of a special police officer was still alive in Hank Gannon.
He had gone roughly an eighth of a mile into the valley when he heard, then felt, the approaching horses. It was the wrong direction to be his own people. The Comanche had found the horse and were coming this way. He stopped, squatted between his horse and the western wall of the valley—affording him some protection from a surprise attack by his quarry—and looked back. The horses were coming at a steady gait but he could not be sure why.
Gannon had his answer when the hoofbeats stopped with a sudden, dusty finality.
They were sealing one end of the valley.
* * *
Roving Wolf had entered the valley and immediately sought high ground. His war with the white man did not need to be hurried by ambush. The war party would know to block one entrance to the valley and let him have the man. They would not enter the chasm themselves as they would certainly have their own fight soon enough. It would be too easy for the white men to seal both ends and lay siege or use brush fires to squeeze them slowly toward a central killing field.
The Comanche’s idea was an ancient Indian tactic, but new to the invaders from the east: to turn the tracker into the tracked. Roving Wolf had scaled the wall to a ledge about twice head-high, where there was a shadowed nook in which he could crouch and hide. As the day grew old, the darkness there would only deepen. And it had. All Roving Wolf had to do was watch and make sure he did not brush off a lizard or swat at a curious crow that could attract the man’s attention. That, and he had to give his enemy a name. The man had freed him, once. Then held him captive. He had two faces, like a rock that was sun-baked on top, damp and infested with insects underneath. And he had his pelts—
Gray Stone.
Roving Wolf nodded once with satisfaction. It lacked the spiritual core of an animal name, but it was not dishonorable. Now the enemy was fixed as an idea, not just flesh to be killed but a being whose moves and thoughts could be more easily predicted. Solid but with hazy ideals. He was the opposite of most white men, who were fierce in their minds but flimsy of body. Without an army or a horse or a firearm, they were weak. That was why they required Indians to scout for them. They did not know how to read or face a world, only how to pummel and remake it.
The newly named enemy came before long, walking beside his horse. He was not stupid. From where Roving Wolf sat, he could only see head and shoulders. A handmade spear or slingshot would only harm the horse. Even a gun or bow and arrow, if he had one, would likely miss its target.
The Indian watched, waiting for the white man to reach and then pass him. Then he would descend and track the slow-moving man. The horse’s hooves would make just enough noise to disguise the sound of any stones Roving Wolf might dislodge.
And then he heard the approach of the war party. It had taken them somewhat longer than he had expected, and he was surprised when they stopped by the valley entrance. War Chief Buffalo Eyes was not a warrior of tactic but of fierce faith: he believed in the grace of the animal spirits that watched over the Comanche. White enemies moved in columns; Buffalo Eyes preferred to attack in a wide crescent, drawing their attention every which way, out of range of their gunfire, until a circle had been formed around them. Had he stopped to wait for Roving Wolf? To ambush the whites? He had not done that at Blanco Canyon.
There had to be something else. Buffalo Eyes hated the white man with fire in his blood, and the only thing that would change his battle plan was the ability to inflict deep, lasting scars. He was a warrior who preferred to scalp and release a still-living enemy rather than to offer his screams and raw heart to a campfire. Acts of horror instilled fear in settlers and soldiers or caused an immediate, unreasoning response of flight or attack—both of which worked to the advantage of the Comanche.
Had they captured a prisoner whose screams could be used to frighten or draw out the white man?
None of that was Roving Wolf’s concern. Gray Stone had heard the war party as well. After determining that none of its members were close by, he had resumed his passage, looking up and around for any sign of his prey.
When the man with the fur cape was sufficiently ahead, deeper in the winding valley, Roving Wolf made his descent. He did so quietly, by feel of fingers and toes, never taking his eyes off the enemy.
* * *
Buffalo Eyes was an older brave, having seen more than forty summers, but he was as powerful of arm as he was of hate, and still immensely keen of mind and eye. Though his ways had always served him and the Comanche, this latest advance of the white man had forced him to consider another approach to battle.
The war chief watched with keen interest as the two braves approached with their captive.
He felt deep satisfaction as they neared. He did not smile, but his spirit rose. The Big Father had given him the means to control and destroy the enemies of his people.
A woman.
CHAPTER SIX
October 19, 1871
“There’s a war party stopped at the mouth o’ the Snake Water Valley.”
Andrew Whitestraw had ridden to the side of Captain Keel to make his report. The columns had halted again, and a sense of faraway lightning had settled on them. The enemy was in sight, and a battle, perhaps a charge, was likely imminent. Though Colonel Nightingale was on the other side of Whitestraw, the scout spoke entirely to his own commander.
“Numbers?” Keel asked.
“Lotta shadow this side, an’ they’re in it,” the scout said. “But far as I can see about two dozen me
n on horse.”
“We outnumber them,” Nightingale observed. “Can we count on your former officer there?”
“I expect we can,” Keel remarked.
“But Captain,” Whitestraw went on, “riders came in a minute ago. They was leadin’ a cart, slow and sorta easy. My guess is so’s I’d see it.”
“Who would be fool enough to go riding out here during an engagement?” Nightingale asked.
Keel had no answer and did not offer one. That was not his concern just now.
“The Comanche have a hostage,” the captain said gravely. “Andy, go and find out what they want. Sergeant!”
Richard Calvin was still on point. He half-turned. “Sir?”
“Cover him!”
The sergeant shouldered his rifle as the scout pulled a white kerchief from his saddlebag, kept there for just such occasions. Whitestraw rode forward, the white flag in his teeth. When dealing with the Comanche, the Tonkawa liked to keep both hands free.
“What do you hope to get from this, Captain?” Nightingale asked. His tone was slightly critical; his posture and iron gaze were not suited to field parlays.
“Information,” Keel answered. “The poor hostage out there? As good as in the grave.”
“Then you don’t intend to negotiate?”
“There’s no negotiating,” Keel said, almost snickering at the thought. “They’d want our horses or weapons or both. Then they’d leave us to walk away with the hostage and our shame.”
“So we will be attacking.”
The captain watched his two men riding forward across the quarter-mile or so that separated them from the Comanche. “That’s what we’re here for,” Keel said. “But we have to do it on our timetable, not theirs. And the field of battle also has to be what we select.”
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