Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04 (5 page)

C
YNTHIA ANN CLOSED HER EYES
hard, until she thought the pressure would squeeze them so tightly she would never be able to open them again. She felt the hands on her back, the rough hair of the horse under her. All around her, she could smell the tang of pine needles. She could tell by the sound of the pony’s hooves that it was in the pine forest near the fort. And under the smell of the pine, she smelled sweat, both of the pony and of the wild man who held her.

She kept seeing things in her mind’s eye, things she didn’t want to see, things that terrified her and made her scream, and only when she realized that did she understand why her throat was so raw. She could see Granny, the lance stabbed through her shoulder, pinned to the ground the way Elder John had once pinned a kingsnake. Only the kingsnake had wiggled and curled itself into a ball, then straightened out as it tried to squirm away. But Granny just lay still. There was blood on Granny’s dress and her hair
was a mess, the pins undone, the long strands of gray spread out around her like a string mop.

And Cynthia could see her father, his body all bloody, his arms and legs lying loose, limp, like a shattered doll. And he had been bloody, too, his shirt soaked with it, his face pale and his eyes staring up at the sky like he was looking for a bird. Smoke from the burning buildings swirled all around him, and he disappeared.

But worst of all was Uncle Ben. She had just caught a glimpse of him as they raced past, but his body was all torn, chunks of skin laid open and blood everywhere. His shirt had been torn to ribbons and she couldn’t even tell what color it was, there was so much blood. And his eyes were the color of the sky, as if they had become two pieces of glass that had no color of their own, and could only reflect what they stared at.

She didn’t want to see those things, but knew she couldn’t not see them, whether her eyes were open or squeezed shut. She knew, in fact, that she would see them for the rest of her life, and at the moment it didn’t seem likely that would be very long at all. She tried to stop screaming, to rest her throat, and she felt the hands on her back patting her, almost stroking her, as if trying to calm her down, the way Grandpa John had done when her first and only dog had died. They were rough hands, like Grandpa John’s hands, but not unkind.

Her screams died away to whimpers, and finally to occasional sobs. She felt things she
couldn’t see and didn’t want to look at ripping at her arms and legs. Thorns tore at the skin of her exposed arms and snagged in the cloth of her dress sleeves. Her legs kept battering against things that first resisted and then gave way, and she knew without looking that the pony was moving deeper into the forest. She kept telling herself that it would be all right, that the Indian who had taken her did not mean to harm her, but then those pictures of Granny and her father and Uncle Ben flooded back, and she knew that the man could have meant nothing
but
harm.

She could hear a wail off through the trees, and it took her a moment to realize the voice was familiar, that her little brother had been taken, too, and was not far away. Her first instinct was to call out to him, to tell him not to be afraid, but she didn’t want the Indian to know she was awake and alert. Better he think she had closed up like some slimy snail, gone deep inside herself where things couldn’t reach her.

Trickles of blood ran down her arms and legs from the tears and scratches, and mixed with sweat that kept dripping from the man who held her. The sweat was salty and made the cuts and scratches sting, but she didn’t try to wipe it away. The burning sensation gave her something to think about. If she could keep her mind on something simple, something ordinary, maybe she could forget all about the horror that swirled around her now like a tornado.

Now that she had stopped crying, she felt the
hands holding her relax a little. They lay there, spread on her back with the fingers splayed wide enough to balance her. If the Indian thought she meant to escape, he showed no sign, and she thought about trying to wriggle free.

To do that, though, she would have to open her eyes, and she didn’t want him to know. Letting her head hang and wobble, as if she had fallen asleep, she tried just peeking, but all she could see was a blur a couple of feet beneath her, where the carpet of pine needles flashed by, little spouts of brittle needles geysering with every hoofbeat. That was good, because the needles would cushion her fall.

But wriggling from even so casual a grasp would not be easy. She sensed that without really thinking about it. She might have to grab hold of something to pull herself free, maybe a tree limb or a sturdy vine. But she would have to choose carefully, because she knew she would get only that one chance. Once the Indian knew she meant to escape, he would be much more careful. And the more she thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that she might succeed. If she found just the right branch, at just the right height, she might be able to grab on, but that would throw her back into her captor, and he would react immediately, grabbing her with both hands. And it would probably make him angry. Instinctively, she seemed to know that if she were going to survive this terrible ordeal, the most important thing was to make no trouble,
none at all. The less attention she called to herself, the better her chances of living long enough to find a way to escape.

Then, when she thought about John, the idea of leaving him seemed an impossible thing to do. He would be terrified as it was, and she would have to help him. If she stayed, maybe they could find a way to get away together. But John would never be able to escape on his own. He wouldn’t know how to go about it, and even if he found a chance, he would be too scared to take it.

No, it was better for both of them if she waited. The longer she stayed still, the more careless the Indian would become. Maybe. And if she was right, and he dropped his guard, maybe then she could get away, tugging John by the hand the way she dragged him home to supper.

She could see the trees flashing by her, and as she watched, her eyes bare slits, she realized the forest was thinning. They were reaching the edge of it, she thought, maybe going back to the fort. Maybe it was all a joke, maybe the Indian was taking her back, and her father would be waiting at the gate, laughing, tears rolling down his cheeks at such a great trick. Granny would be there, too, her hair pinned up again, a big bowl of bread pudding on the table, with brown sugar sprinkled all over it, just the way she liked it.

Maybe that was it. She allowed herself to relax a little at the thought, not quite believing
it, but not wanting not to believe it, either. It would be …

But it was too hard to think that way. It was no joke. She knew that, deep down inside. And finally, she allowed herself to open her eyes wide. She turned her head then, partly to protect her face from the lashing pine branches and partly to sneak a look at the Indian.

She saw that his face was painted with red and yellow, and that his eyes were narrowed against the pines and the swarms of gnats that swirled around them. The broad nose was bridged with the garish paint, and his lips were set somewhere between a smile and a snarl.

And she screamed again. The sound went on and on in her own ears, and she thought it would never stop.

Unable to close her eyes, she saw him glance at her, then felt one firm hand pat her back as if she had hiccups. He said something she didn’t understand, and nodded as if to reassure her that he meant what he said.

Suddenly the sky exploded and there was sunlight all around her. It took her a moment to realize that they had come out of the forest and she tried to raise her head to look around. The dark wall of pines was falling away behind her, and she saw ponies erupting all along the tree line. Some of the Indians howled and shook their bows and lances overhead as they converged on the man who held her across his lap.

Cynthia Ann looked for John, but none of the
ponies seemed to be carrying double, and she squirmed some more. The Indian seemed to know what she was trying to do, patted her shoulder and pointed. Once more he said something that sounded like a grunt, and she tried to look, but it was too difficult. Realizing it, the Indian grabbed her under the arms, swung her high in the air, the way Grandpa John used to do, then lowered her over the pony so she could sit. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and she looked down at the copper skin, the swirls of war paint that ran from the shoulder all the way to the middle of the muscular forearm.

Again the man pointed, and this time she was able to follow the extended arm. She saw John then, hanging like a sack of flour over another pony. He seemed to be sleeping, and for one terrible moment she thought he might be dead. But then she realized that there was no point in carrying dead weight, and the Indians would have no use for him, and would have left him behind, if he were not alive.

She almost smiled then, able for a second to forget about where she was and how she had come to be there. She raised a hand timidly, until it was just a little above her shoulder, and curled two fingers in the smallest of waves. But John didn’t see her, and so she waved the hand back and forth, still keeping it below her head. Again, John failed to respond, and she knew then he was probably unconscious or sleeping.

Sensing what she was trying to do, the Indian
nudged his pony toward the one which carried her brother. The pony moved in very close, so close that she could reach out and touch John’s blond locks, full of pine needles and the husks of seeds. She couldn’t see his face, but she noticed the bloody scratches on his arms. Instinctively, forgetting for a moment where she was, she gasped, “Is he all right?”

Only when she turned to wait for the answer did she remember, and she started once more to wail. The Indian shook his head and put a finger to his lips. He made a shushing sound and took the extended finger from his own lips to hers. She trembled as the fingertip approached, and shrank away for a moment when she felt it touch her lips.

She shushed because she was afraid not to, but continued to sob, her hands extended toward her brother. The Indian raised a hand and the others all stopped. She realized then that he must be somebody important, maybe even a chief. He shouted something and one of the warriors moved closer. Some of them, she noticed, were followed by riderless horses. One of these was brought close and the man who had captured her slipped from his pony so easily that she didn’t even hear him land on the ground. He picked her up then, his large hands encircling her waist, and placed her gently on the riderless pony. Then, he walked toward the Indian who carried her brother.

Taking John in his arms, he rocked him almost
tenderly, then tickled the boy’s nose with the tip of a finger. She saw John’s eyes open then, the bright blue almost glowing in the harsh sunlight. The boy started to cry, and the Indian rocked him again, one hand patting the boy’s sob-wracked shoulders. Then, spinning the boy high overhead, as he had done with her, he brought John down on the pony in front of her.

The Indian barked something, and one of the warriors tossed him a sack of some kind. The Indian she had already begun to think of as the chief opened the sack and took out a length of rawhide. He jerked a knife from a sheath on his hip, and John screamed. The Indians all laughed, and Cynthia leaned forward to coo in the boy’s ear, trying to calm him.

Working quickly, the Indian secured her feet under the pony, did the same to John, using one continuous length of the rawhide, then cut it, sliced a short piece from the remainder, and brought her hands in front of John. He tied her hands together with her arms around John’s tiny waist, taking care not to cut off her circulation. Then, without a word, he swung up onto his pony, nudged it close and leaned over to snag the lead rope attached to her pony’s rawhide bridle.

Once more, he barked a command, flapped his knees against the pony’s sides, and the flight resumed.

She saw now that they were heading out into the plains. As far as she could see, tall grass
waved in the hot sun. She glanced over her shoulder at the trees for a moment, as if trying to fix the place in her memory.

From time to time, one or another of the warriors would ride close. Mostly they said nothing. But occasionally one of them would grunt something at her, then smile. One even reached out and took some of her long blond hair in his hand and draped it across his wrist, then made several rapid clucking sounds and backed away, shaking his head.

By noon, her terror was giving way to thirst and hunger. She hadn’t had breakfast, and her stomach was grumbling. John snuffled from time to time, tilting his head to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his shirt, but he calmed down enough that Cynthia was able to concentrate more on their surroundings. The trees were long gone behind her, and the sun hammered relentlessly down.

The sun was past its zenith before the crows of some cottonwoods appeared on the horizon. The whole band swung toward it as if they had known it would be there, and then she realized that of course they had. They were Indians, after all.

It took nearly a half hour to reach the trees, and they were almost within a stone’s throw when she saw the gleam of water through the tangle of underbrush. A spring, she thought. Maybe now they’ll give us some food. The Indians dismounted, except for a handful who
spread out in all directions to stand watch while the rest watered their animals.

When they had dismounted, the chief and one of the warriors opened a buckskin bag and offered her some dried meat. It was chewy and a little too salty for her liking, but at least it was food. She thought they might let her and John get down, but so far there had been no indication they would.

All she could do was watch. And wait.

W
ARRIORS SPURTED AHEAD
of the main body, driving horses stolen in their raids far to the east. Cynthia didn’t know it, but the raid on Fort Parker was just an afterthought. The fort was there, and the Comanche just happened to be passing by. A few miles to the north, and they wouldn’t have bothered. The pickings at the fort had been pitifully slim, and Peta Nocona was already wondering whether it had been worth the trouble. He thought about the people left bleeding on the ground, some dead before the Comanche had ridden away, some to be dead before the dust of the Comanche flight had settled. They were white, and that was reason enough to hate them, given how the whites had come into land that wasn’t theirs and started to act as if the Comanche were the interlopers.

Looking at the two children, he wondered why he and Black Snake had taken them. They had captured the children of enemies before, but things were changing fast, and now he wondered
whether it might mean trouble of a kind they had never seen before. It was common practice for the Comanche, as for most plains Indians, to take captives, almost always women and children, and as often as not, they were taken into a tipi and adopted by the tribe. There were such people even now in the main camp of the Noconi Comanche. Three Mexicans, all of them taken long ago, so long that it seemed to all but the very oldest, that they had always been part of the tribe. There were whites, too. Two men who were warriors now, more Comanche even than the real Comanche, and a woman who had been with them for fifteen winters. Maybe, Nocona thought, Black Feather can help. He knew the children were terrified, and he didn’t blame them. But, he thought, better to be frightened and alive than dead like Little Calf, just a memory now, a little boy who had never hurt anyone fallen victim, like so many other children, to the brutal reality of Comanche life.

As the first of the tipis came into sight, Nocona moved alongside Black Snake, who was grinning from ear to ear, delighted with the captives. Nocona wanted to ask him what he planned to do with the boy, but now was not the time. That would have to wait until they were alone, maybe on a hunt. They could go off together, just the two of them, as they had done so many times before. Then, alone in the center of the universe, the campfire swallowed by the dark night around them, he could ask, and Black
Snake would answer, because they were the best of friends, and had no secrets from each other.

Shaking his head, he urged his pony forward, slowly gaining on the leaders of the band, soon passing them and, as the village took shape before his tired eyes, mustering the energy to lead the triumphal procession into the village. All around him, the warriors were yipping and howling, waving feathered lances and racing their ponies pell mell, cutting in front of one another and showing off, especially the young warriors, who were more interested in catching the eye of some young woman they fancied than the number of admiring glances from the old squaws or the subtle nods of approval that seemed to be the best the old men could manage.

As the people closed around the returning warriors, Nocona stayed close to Black Snake. For some reason he didn’t understand, he felt protective of the young captives. He had watched the girl, particularly, and admired the way she had kept control of her emotions. She had seemed to realize what she could do and what she couldn’t do. Once she had regained her composure after the initial terror, she had kept still, and he thought he could see her watching, learning, even as they rode.

And he admired the way she had tried to protect the boy, whom Nocona took to be her brother. That took courage out of the ordinary. This was a brave little girl, of that much he felt certain. With the celebration swirling like flood
water around him, he dismounted in front of his lodge, propped his shield on the stand, then his lance, and gave the horse to one of the boys to feed and water.

Immediately, he moved toward Black Snake’s lodge, and got there just as Black Snake was cutting the rawhide binding from the little girl’s hands. Black Snake hefted the little boy and as he set him on the ground, Nocona moved past and helped the girl down. She looked up at him uncertainly, her eyes wide, her hands, face, and legs ragged with scratches and laced with dried blood, the whole covered with a thick paste of trail dust mixed with sweat and blood.

Holding the little girl’s hand, he turned to his friend. “What will you do now? With the children?”

Black Snake shrugged. “What we always do, I think. “

“They need a woman to watch over them, to teach them how things are here.”

“And …?”

“And I was thinking that maybe Black Feather would be the right woman for the boy.”

“Why Black Feather?”

“Why not? She will understand what he is thinking and feeling. She might even remember some of the Anglo language, which will make it easier for both of them.”

“But she doesn’t have a husband. It is enough that the rest of us have to hunt for her. How will she feed the child?”

“It is time she had a husband.”

“But there is no one who …” Black Snake stopped in midsentence and backed away a step. “You’re not suggesting that I …”

Nocona shook his head. “Yes, I am suggesting that.”

“But who will speak for her? She has no family here, now that Blue Buffalo is gone. He took her in, he raised her, he … there is no one to speak for her.”

“I will speak for her. As the chief, it is my right, even my duty. I will speak on her behalf.”

“But I don’t …”

“You think she is pretty. I know that. I see you making sick calf eyes at her at the dances. After each hunt you give her so much buffalo meat that no one else has to give her anything. When she makes moccasins, she gives you the best pair. When she goes down to the river to bathe, sometimes you sneak into the willows and watch.”

“How did you know … I never … but, I am not ready to be married. There is …”

“There is nothing left for you to accomplish that you cannot accomplish with a wife. And if you have a family, I think maybe you will even live longer. As a friend, that is something that is important to me. You know how the hot-blooded young men are. They are so busy trying to impress one another that they don’t stop to think. They think war is a game.”

“It
is
a game.”

“No. Nothing which leads to death is a game. Life is too important for that. You are a great warrior. Everyone knows that. There is nothing left for you to prove. I think maybe it is time that you paid more attention to how long you live and less to how close you can come to dying.”

“I don’t know. I …” He stopped again and tilted his head, looking at his friend out of the corner of his eye. “She is pretty, isn’t she? She is a good woman. But she is a little older than … “

“Not so old. Only twenty-two or twenty-three winters. Younger than you are. It would be a good match. You know that, and so does everyone else in the village.”

“Do you think that she knows it, too?”

“Yes, I think she knows it. But if it will make you feel better, I will ask her.”

“You can’t just come right out and ask her something like that.”

“Why not?”

“What if she says no?”

“Will that hurt your pride so much? Besides, who will know? Only you and me and Black Feather. I will tell no one, and neither will she. So, if anyone learns about it, it will be because you pull a long face and mope around. But I don’t think she will say no.”

“Maybe you could … “

“What?”

“What about the marriage gifts? She has nothing. How will it look?”

“I will take care of that. Since I will speak for
her, I will take that responsibility. It is the custom, and you know that. You are just looking for excuses. The great Black Snake, who eats Apache for his morning meal then cuts the heart out of a Pawnee for his evening meal is afraid of a woman, a white woman at that. Now
that
I will not keep to myself, and you will have no one to blame. “

“Sometimes,” Black Snake said, laughing in spite of himself, “I wish I were chief, so I could make you do things that make your skin hot and the women laugh at you behind your back.”

“No, my friend, you would not really want to be chief. Not if you knew the things I have to worry about. Arranging a marriage for a friend is an easy thing. But it might be the only easy thing.”

Suddenly, both men were aware of the jubilant chaos around them, and the press of women and children on all sides. Nocona knew that meant that the thing was settled and that they were free to think about other things.

“I will ask her about keeping the boy right now. I will speak about the other thing later.”

“When?” Black Snake sounded eager, in spite of himself.

“Tonight. Unless you want me to do it now.”

“No!” The answer came so quickly, Black Snake was embarrassed. Nocona smiled, but didn’t make the obvious observation that his friend was more terrified of the woman than of any foe.

“Come with me,” Nocona said.

Black Snake shook his head. “No, I think it …”

“He is your captive. You should be there when I talk to her.”

“You won’t mention the other thing?”

Nocona smiled. “No. I won’t mention the other thing. I promise.”

He glanced down then, as if aware for the first time that he held a small white hand in his own. He saw the girl looking up at him, her face apprehensive but composed. It was, he thought, as if she knew what we were talking about, knew that it concerned her and the boy. Then, as if something had been settled permanently in his mind, he tugged on the hand and started toward Black Feather’s lodge, pushing through the crowd and turning back to see Black Snake hoist the small boy onto his shoulders and start after him.

Black Snake was smiling, and Nocona thought he knew why. When he reached the lodge where Black Feather lived by herself, he announced himself, and heard her invite him in. He ducked through, pulling the suddenly reluctant girl in after him. He waited for Black Snake to come inside before he spoke.

Black Feather was sitting by the fire pit, but there was no fire in the oppressive heat. She had the sides rolled to let in light and to try to find some relief from the sweltering air. She looked at Nocona, then at Black Snake and only then did she permit herself to glance at the children.

Nocona thought it was because she was afraid of what she would see. She averted her eyes quickly, and he started to speak, but then saw the silver glistening on her cheeks, and he stopped.

She swallowed hard before asking, “What do you want?”

Nocona indicated the boy with a nod of his head.

“What about him?”

“I think it would be a good idea if he stayed with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you need someone to help you. And he needs someone to help him.”

“That is what a family is for,” she snapped. “He probably has a family. Why don’t you take him to them?”

Nocona cleared his throat, embarrassed at the impeccable logic of her question, and more than a little intimidated by the anger straining to break through her clipped speech.

Black Snake started to say something, but Nocona held up a hand. “Maybe you should leave us alone for a while,” he said. “Take the children outside.”

When Black Snake was gone, Black Feather stood up and turned her back, as if she were afraid to say what she had to say while facing Nocona. “A long time ago, I was taken from my family. Now you come here with other children, taken just as I was taken, and you think that
makes it all right, because I will understand what they are going through. And you would be right. I
would
understand. What I don’t understand is why they
have
to go through it. Why didn’t you just kill them?”

“Has it been that terrible for you?”

She whirled around, then. “What do you think? How do you think it’s been? You knew your parents. You sat in your mother’s lap. You learned to hunt with your father.”

“I saw them grow old and die.”

“Is that why you did this? To spare them the pain of watching the people they love and who love them grow old and die? Then why don’t we give away all our children, let someone else heal their wounds and quiet their fears? Maybe we shouldn’t have children at all. Maybe it would be better if …”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

“No. But you are right, and I am sorry. I just thought that …”

“You thought that I would take the children because I have none of my own. That they would be my family because I have none, and I would be their family because you saw to it that they have none.”

“No! I brought the boy to you because I thought you were one of us. It is what we do. I thought it would be what you would do, because you
are
one of us.”

“You’re right. I am one of you. But not by choice.”

Nocona smiled. “I am not a Comanche by choice, either. But I
am
a Comanche. And so are you.” He turned then. “I am sorry. I will … “

“No, wait … I … of course I’ll take care of the boy. I just … “

“I understand,” he said. “I had a family of my own, once. But no more. … “

“Bring in the boy,” Black Feather said. She turned to look at him, saw that his back was turned, and walked over to rest a hand on his shoulder. “There are enough orphans,” she said.