Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04 (2 page)

N
OCONA EXAMINED A FISTFUL
of arrows, checking each shaft to make certain it was straight and true, ensuring that the heads were sharp and secure and that the fletching was smooth and tight. Satisfied, he slipped them into a quiver that glittered in the firelight, elaborate beadwork catching the flames and scattering them in every direction.

His wife, White Heron, watched him quietly, looking up now and then and letting her hands rest in her lap, an unfinished moccasin under them. She didn’t like it when Nocona was away for long stretches of time. She understood it, realized that it was what he did, how he supported his family and also that it was expected of a great warrior. But knowing all that didn’t make the long, lonely nights any easier to bear.

She was not alone in her distaste for the long separation. Nocona himself had told her once, lying awake long after their son was sleeping,
the fire crackling as it died, and the walls of the tipi shivering in a cold wind from the north. “I wish there could be another way,” he’d said, “another way to live. But this is the only way I know. I don’t want to be like the Mexicans, tied to one piece of land, bending my back over a plow and trying to scratch a living from stones.”

At first, unsure whether he meant for her to hear, she said nothing. He turned toward her then, rested a hand on her forehead and brushed a lock of jet black hair aside. “What do you think?” he’d asked then.

“I think you do what you have to do. I think that you know what is best for you. And what is best for the people. One day you will be a chief, and these are things that you must think about for their sake.”

He’d laughed, almost bitterly. “I wish you were right, but … “

And that had been it. He’d never mentioned his doubts again, and she’d never raised them on her own. What was would have to be enough. But every time he prepared for war, or got himself ready for a raid far to the south or west, she thought about that night, heard his words as plainly as if he had spoken them again. And she worried. She worried because she knew that uncertainty was as deadly an enemy as any Apache or Mexican, could snuff out Nocona’s life in a twinkling. He had to believe in what he was doing, do it with all his heart in order to do it well. If he were unsure, he would
hesitate, and one day that hesitation would get him killed.

Now, hearing the whisper of the arrrows as they slid into the soft deerskin quiver, she heard the words again. And this time, like every other time since that night, she chewed on her lip rather than mention that conversation, hoping that it had slipped his mind. She would not risk reminding him and perhaps giving him reason to question what he was about to do.

“Will you be gone long?” she asked. It was what she always asked, always quietly as if she hoped he didn’t hear her. But he always did. This time was no exception.

He shook his head. “Not long. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.”

“You go to Mexico?”

“Of course. Mexico. That is where the horses are. You know that.”

“Don’t we have enough horses?”

“You can never have enough horses, you know that, too. We can trade most of them to the Kiowa and the Shoshone, anyway. It is much easier for us to get them from Mexico than it is for them.”

“What do the Kiowa have that we don’t have already? Why do we need anything to trade with them? Is their buffalo meat better than ours? Do their children have moccasins while ours do not?”

“You know that’s not it …”

“What, then? I want to understand … I know
you have told me before, but I still don’t think I understand.”

“They have guns, white man weapons they get from the north and the east.”

“Your arrows are deadly enough, are they not?”

He laughed. “Yes, they are. But I can’t shoot an arrow as far as a gun can shoot a bullet. And there will soon come a time when our enemies have enough guns that they will not be afraid to attack us. And when that day comes, we had better have guns of our own.”

White Heron took a deep breath. She didn’t want to argue with him. Not now, not when he would be leaving so soon, and maybe not coming back. That was no way to send him off to Mexico. So she turned back to the unfinished moccasin, her practiced fingers working the rawhide lacing through another hole and another and a third. She became aware of the silence then, stopped once more, and looked up at Nocona. He was watching her intently, his eyes wide.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He continued to look at her, and his expression seemed to be changing from one dark mood to another.

“Tell me …”

“I like watching you do that. There is something comforting in it. It is nice to have such control over something that you can start and know just what it will be like when it is finished.”

“Don’t make too much of it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I might put sleeves on your next moccasins.”

He laughed then, lightheartedly this time, and dropped to one knee beside her. “You would, too, wouldn’t you?”

“If you don’t go soon, yes. The warriors are waiting for you. You can’t disappoint them, or when it comes time they will look to someone else to be chief.”

He sighed. “There are times when I wish they would do that.”

“Don’t talk like that. You know you don’t mean it. You would not hate being chief.”

“Probably not. But I wonder if I would not hate it as much as I would not hate
being
chief.”

“It is what you wanted ever since you were a little boy. I used to watch you, then. Remember running around with your face all painted up, sneaking into tipis and scaring the life out of the old women with your shrieking? You even stole my uncle’s horse one time.”

“That was nothing. Just something I did so you would notice me.”

“How could I not notice you? You were everywhere. No matter which way I turned, there you were. And everybody teased me about it.”

“That isn’t why they teased you.” He knelt closer, his eyes on her face, as if searching for something.

“Why, then?”

“Because they knew how much you wanted me to follow you, and you all the time complaining when there I was, doing exactly what you wanted me to do. They saw through you. They knew just what you were up to.”

“Who? Who knew?”

“Everyone.” Nocona reached out and cupped her chin in one hand, then leaned forward and brushed her forehead with his lips. Then he straightened up and got to his feet.

“Be careful,” she said. “And come home as soon as you can.”

He didn’t answer. Bending to retrieve the quiver, he pushed aside the entrance flap and slipped out of the tipi into the bright sunlight. He grabbed his war shield from its stand beside the tipi, took a lance and swung up onto the back of his favorite war pony. He had already cut a second horse from the herd for the long trail into Mexico. The rest of the warriors were already on their mounts, some even sprinting them back and forth on the edge of the village to give them a second wind. They would ride hard for the first day, then make a more deliberate pace all the way to the Rio Grande.

Pushing his pony with his knees, the war rope coiled in his fist, Nocona made his way to the raiding party. The warriors saw him coming and started waving their bows and lances in the air, shaking their shields and yipping. They were anxious to get on the move. Or so it appeared. He
wondered whether any of the others were as ambivalent as he was.

He had never discussed his own concerns with any of the other warriors, not even with Black Snake, his closest friend. It wasn’t because he was afraid Black Snake would think him a coward, but because it was a chief’s responsibility to lead his men, and you could not lead men who knew you were uncertain about where you were leading them, or whether you ought to be leading them at all. So he had swallowed his doubts, let them chew at his insides, and kept his own counsel. Even when he became chief, he knew, it was not something he would discuss. Perhaps especially not then.

Black Snake, riding a pinto daubed with stripes of bright red and yellow, rode forward to meet him.

“White Heron didn’t want to let you go?” he asked, grinning broadly.

“You’re only saying that because you wish your wife tried as hard to keep you at home,” Nocona said.

“If my wife looked like White Heron, she wouldn’t have to try hard at all to keep me at home. She would have to drive me out of the lodge with a lance.”

Nocona waved a derisive hand. “You love raiding the Mexicans more than you love life itself. You wouldn’t stay at home willingly, even if you had a handful of White Herons in your tipi.”

“A handful of White Herons would send me off to meet the Great Spirit.” Black Snake smiled. “That would be the only place I could sleep.”

“Are we ready?”

Black Snake nodded. Like Nocona, he was a subchief, and highly regarded by most of the warriors. “We’re ready. Are you all right?”

“Yes, why?”

“I don’t know. It seems like you have something on your mind. Something heavy. Are you angry that I teased you about White Heron?”

“It is not the first time you have teased me about such things. Why would it make me angry now?”

Black Snake shook his head. “If you’re sure you’re all right, then we should go. It is a long way to Mexico, and the warriors are anxious to get moving.”

“They are always anxious. Always they want to count coup and swagger around like no one has ever touched an enemy before.”

“They are young. They will get used to it, and then it will not seem like such a big thing to them. You and I were like them once.”

Nocona sighed. “I know. It wasn’t that long ago that I don’t remember.”

“Then you should be more patient with them. Let them have their fun. It doesn’t last that long. One day they will be old and toothless, if they are lucky, and will wait at home while others go and bring back horses and buffalo.”

“I am worried about the Osage.”

“There hasn’t been any sign of them. Not since they attacked the Kiowa village and that is almost a year ago. What is there to worry about?”

“It is not like they have dried up and blown away, like the husks of old corn. And they haven’t made peace with us. Why would I not worry?”

“Because the Osage would not dare attack a Comanche village. They know what would happen if they did.”

Nocona looked up at the sun rather than answering his friend. “You are right. It is time to go.”

Holding his lance high overhead, Nocona let out an earsplitting wail, shook the lance, and prodded his pony into a gallop. The women and children and the few warriors left behind to defend the village all raced out of the camp and down to the river, where Nocona plunged in, barely slowing his pony. They were shouting and waving, the individual words lost in the din.

As he came out of the river on the far side, Nocona turned to watch the others, most of them still well out in the current and some even on the far side yet. He scanned the crowd for White Heron, but knew that she would not be there. She never was. It was for others to scream and yell and rattle whatever came to hand. She preferred to stay in the tipi, her mind on her work. Nocona had always come home, and she was not about to do anything that might change that. Not now.

Urging his pony up the ridge, he turned once more at the crest and watched the last few warriors straggle out of the river and spurt forward, streaming water like silver ribbons in the bright sun. It was time to turn his mind southward.

W
HITE HERON WAS UP
earlier than usual. When the sun came up, normally she would already be preparing the morning meal, or sitting quietly by the newly made fire, doing beadwork. She enjoyed the quiet time, when the camp was silent, and she could follow the trail of her own thought without interruption. But when Nocona was away on a hunt, which might not bring him back for two or three weeks, or a war party, which might not bring him back at all, sleep was hard to come by.

At such times, as often as not, she would hear something in the dark, an owl or the yip of a coyote, even the snorting of a restless pony across the river, and she would awaken, knowing even as her eyes snapped open, that sleep was gone for the rest of the night. And this time, having sensed Nocona’s restless foreboding, sleep was more elusive than usual.

Brushing aside the entrance flap, she stepped outside, then held the leather in her fingers as
she lowered it back in place. She stood there for a long moment, her back to the tipi. Painted by the light of a nearly full moon, the whole village seemed to have been made of Mexican silver. In its stillness, it looked to her almost like a collection of toys, as if the pale light somehow diminished everything, shrank it all down to a size more appropriate for children’s playthings.

Moving toward the river, she watched the horses across the sluggish current, most of them quiet, some standing with bowed heads, others twitching tails and ears to catch the first hint of danger which could come at them at any moment, from any direction. Everything seemed so fragile to her, so precarious, as if the life she lived were balanced on the edge of some yawning abyss, one into which it could all vanish in the twinkling of an eye with one false step.

At the water’s edge, she sat down, her back to the village, and watched the placid surface. The water murmured softly. Almost instinctively, she turned her gaze skyward, toward the cold moon, impassive in its stare. It was almost unfriendly, as if it wanted to force her to use its light to see things she chose not to see. Out near the center of the river, an image of the moon, like a second, colder eye stared back at her as unblinkingly as the original, or the eye of a rattlesnake.

She was worried about Nocona. He seemd to be struggling with some heavy burden. No one else seemed to be aware of it, but she could sense it in the sag of his shoulders, in the grudging
way he laughed now, so unlike him. He was a young man, not even thirty winters behind him, but he carried himself like one of the old ones, as if he had seen things no man should have to see, or knew things one was better off not knowing. Even the children, who normally could make him smile in the middle of a towering rage, no longer seemed to brighten his mood. When he looked at them now it was with a silent sadness, as if he feared for them some fate he could sense but not understand.

Things were changing rapidly. White Heron knew that. He was soon to be a chief, and she understood that being chief in such a time was no easy thing. But that was always true. Being chief was never easy, and things were always changing, sometimes rapidly, sometimes not. The perils were constant, the pressures unremitting. The Osage were as bloodthirsty as always, the Apache as rapacious, the Texans as greedy.

But those were not new concerns.

White Heron grabbed a fistful of grass and slapped it against her thigh as she watched the surface of the river. Almost as if the moon read her mind, it exploded into a shower of silver droplets, a dark shadow arcing into the air where the white disc had been, then crashing with an audible slap that sent ripples in every direction. Startled, it took her several seconds to realize that a trout had leaped after a bug, destroying her tranquility in its hunger.

When the reality finally sank home, she
thought how appropriate it was that the stillness should be broken by a need that respected nothing, not even tranquility. It is, in some ways, a perfect emblem of the Comanche life, she thought. She smiled ruefully, embarrassed that she had been so frightened by something so ordinary. Almost as if she expected that someone would be there, she looked over her shoulder, hoping no one had seen.

Getting to her feet then, she moved east, along the riverbank, heading away from the village, as if it were too solid a presence, despite its apparent fragility. A stand of willows marked the eastern edge of the camp, and she headed toward the trees. A single dog drifted toward her from the tipis, falling in behind her, hanging at her heels as she kicked at the sandy shore.

The trees were dark against the pewter of the grass and the brighter shine of the water where the river curved around behind the willows. A cluster of boulders jutted out into the river just past the trees. She would be shielded from the prying eyes of early risers there, and since sleep was out of the question and it was too early to disturb the others with morning chores, she decided to spend some time in total isolation.

Brushing aside the trailing branches of the first willow, she ducked under its umbrella into deep shade. Turning for a moment to peer back through the thickly leaved branches, she could barely see the tipis, even under the bright moonlight. It seemed almost as if the village had
ceased to be. Part of her wished that it would, that she could just walk off into the rising sun to see what life might be like where the white men were in control.

She knew that Nocona hated the whites, and feared their coming. And she knew, too, from years of living under the dangling sword of Mexican soldiers, that he was right to be concerned, but that didn’t dampen her curiosity. In her heart, she understood, like Nocona, that things were changing. Unlike her husband, who imagined some all-consuming confrontation that would leave all the whites or, far more likely, all the Comanche, to rot in the sun, she hoped that some sort of accommodation was possible. But deep inside, deeper than she was able to go, she knew it wasn’t possible. There was too much hatred, and too much greed. Even for the land that most whites called a desert, the trackless plains of the Llano Estacado, there was too much white greed.

Ducking through the far branches of the willow, she slipped back into the moonlight and climbed up onto the rocks, easing in a crouch over the rough stone until she could stare down into the river. The dog, suddenly attached to her, followed her out, stood for a moment until she ruffled the fur on its neck with an idle hand, then curled into a ball and lay down just out of reach.

It was so quiet, she could hear her own heart beating if she listened. She could see part of the
village now, at the far end, where the river curved to the south. The near end was hidden completely by the willows. The stillness seemed to squeeze her like a giant fist, and she felt frightened for the first time, as if the thickening air meant to do her harm.

Shuddering, she wrapped her arms about her, feeling a sudden chill. She glanced at the willows, but the branches were motionless in the still air. The river continued on, its surface undisturbed. Looking toward the village, she caught a glimpse of something, movement perhaps, she wasn’t sure, out beyond the last tipi. She was not the only one who had difficulty sleeping, she thought.

She got to her feet, still staring at the end of the camp, hoping to catch another glimpse of whoever it was who felt the urge to get out into the quiet and the dark. The dog, too, seemed to sense something, and got to its feet, its tail down and motionless. It woofed once, then took a couple of tentative steps toward her, as if for protection.

She saw the movement again, a quick darting of shadow barely outlined against the grass beyond the village end. Then another, and a third. These were not movements of a single shadow, she thought. Three shadows, maybe more, but who …

She started to run then, dashing off the rocks and turning an ankle. She nearly fell, but managed to keep her balance as she swept through
the willow branches and into the shade. Her feet were silent on the soft mulch of willow leaves. Reaching the far side, she carved a hole through the overhang and peered intently. She could see the near end of the village now. Three dogs got to their feet and headed toward her. One fell to its stomach almost immediately. The other two stopped, turning to the fallen dog as if to see why it had stopped.

She could hear a whimper now, but wasn’t sure whether it came from the fallen dog or one of the others. About to step through the willow curtain, she pulled the branches aside then stopped, one foot poised in the air. More shadows, these moving furtively, darted toward the tipis from her right, dashing out of the meadow behind the village then disappearing into the tall grass.

Instinctively, she let the branches fall back to shield her. Something awful was about to happen, but she didn’t know what. She wanted to shout, but knew that the shadows would silence her before anyone heard. Moving quickly now, she went back the way she’d come, scrambling back onto the boulders and out over the water.

On her knees, she turned her back to the water and let herself down over the sheer face of the rock until she felt the cool water around her ankles. Letting go, she plunged in up to her neck with a splash that seemed like thunder to her. Holding her breath, she waited for some indication that her entry had been heard and, when she
was sure that it had gone unnoticed, she pushed out away from the rock, floating on her back.

Stroking quietly, she pulled herself away from the shore and headed upstream. The current was not strong, but it made the going strenuous. Keeping to deep water, she knew she was taking a risk, because if she were spotted, she would be helpless, an easy target. Still not sure who the invaders were, she kept sweeping the shoreline, hoping to catch a glimpse. The village seemed to retreat a little with every stroke, and she quickened her pace, fighting the pull of the river while trying to remain silent.

She saw one of the shadows then, standing erect, a man, his head shaved clean. In the moonlight, it looked almost as if he had been cast from some dark, heavy metal, lead or iron. But there was no mistaking what he was—Osage. She thought of the Kiowa village the summer before, and her blood went cold.

The dog had followed her, dancing along the shoreline as if she were playing some sort of game with it. Once, it ducked into the water, then bounced back out. Finally, it barked, short, sharp yaps, almost angry, as if to demand that she return to shore.

She held her breath, hoping the dog would not call attention to her. It barked again, this time trailing off in a short yelp. She looked again, and the dog was dragging itself with its forepaws, its hindquarters hugging the ground. It whimpered once, and then went still. She had heard the
sharp thud of the arrow this time as it pierced the dog’s slender body. Squinting in the moonlight, she could see the shaft jabbing at the sky. And the angle made her turn her head. She saw more shadows, maybe as many as a hundred, sprinting toward the river from the far side.

She started to shout then, knowing that any further delay was pointless. Pulling toward the shore, she saw the first splashes as arrows landed all around her. She could hear the hum of bowstrings, like great unseen bugs among the willows, and more arrows rained into the river, one grazing an outstretched arm.

The tipis seemed to echo her feeble cries, and she reached water shallow enough to stand. Once again, she shouted, and this time, one of the entrance flaps moved. She saw a face appear and shouted, “Osage, Osage, Osage!”

The face disappeared, then reappeared, and she recognized Blue Bear, an old man who had been friendly with her father. Blue Bear’s voice joined hers in shouting the alarm. The Osage warriors, knowing that further stealth was pointless, began to yip and shriek, shadows exploding out of the grass all around the camp and darting toward the tipis.

Comanche were spilling out into the night now, as the sky began to turn gray, as if the sun were in a hurry to see what all the rumpus was about. Stumbling out of the river, her feet slippery on the muddy bank and short grass, she tried to run toward her tipi.

Sensing something to her right, she turned as a shadow hurtled toward her. Still shouting to raise the alarm, she turned, dodging the leaping Osage, but a heavy forearm slammed into her knees and took her legs out from under her. She had a knife in a sheath on her hip, and grabbed for it, feeling a thick leg fall across her own. Without looking, she jabbed once, then again with the knife, and felt the softness of flesh end abruptly as her knife struck bone. The Osage grunted, then a fist crashed into her stomach as she flailed with the blade again and again.

Getting to her knees, she threw herself on top of him, and saw then that he was young, not even twenty. But there was no time and this was no place for pity, and she brought the knife down sharply, catching him in the chest just below the heart. She put all her weight into the blow, and felt the knife slide in between ribs. The Osage mumbled something, his voice surprised and almost gentle, then a burble escaped from his chest and she felt blood welling out around the hilt, smearing her fingers as she pulled the knife free.

Getting to her feet, she looked back toward the river. The rest of the Osage were scrambling onto the bank now, and she knew that there were too many. She started toward her tipi again, surrounded by figures darting in every direction. But all she cared about at that moment was her family.

Some of the tipis were already knocked on
their sides, the heavy buffalo skins pulling the poles to the ground and flattening them like cast-off toys. Her own lodge still stood, and as she raced toward it, she saw three Osage warriors slicing at its side, and she screamed. One turned and smiled as he charged toward her with a lance braced on his hip. She saw the point gleaming in the moonlight, then felt the dull blow as it glanced off her hip. The warrior kicked at her and she went down. He stood over her, the lance raised high, one foot pinning her to the ground. For a split second, she saw the lance poised high overhead, then looked away, past him, toward her tipi, as its side was torn away. She heard the whimper of a child, not sure whether it was her own.