Comanche Dawn (42 page)

He landed in the grass beside the deer antler, and to his horror, found it freshly broken where his pony had kicked it. He scrambled to his feet as he heard his mount running away. His shoulder hurt from the impact with the ground, and he heard the laughter of vengeful spirits in a wicked wind that whistled through branches. He wanted to pick up the broken antler and put it back together, but he knew it was too late. To touch it now would only further defile it, for his
puha
had been instantly tainted in a moment of carelessness.

“
Oo-bia!
” he cried out in anguish as his heart suddenly swelled with a very bad feeling. Father Sun looked around a cloud, his gaze hot and angry on Horseback's bare shoulders. He could not even bring himself to look up, fearing Father Sun would strike him blind for this wanton disrespect.

He backed away from the broken deer antler, and ran the way his pony had gone, back down the mountain toward Santa Fe. He felt as though he would be sick. His heart made bad blood go all through his body, down into his limbs. He had been too occupied with matters of humans to watch the ground for spirit signs. This was worse than stepping on the track of a deer. Worse than eating the food a deer would eat. He had broken the weapon of a warrior buck. This was as bad as letting an unclean woman carry his shield.

Now Horseback knew real fear. His weapons would be as useless as if they, too, were broken. Killing the Sacred Bird of the South had been foolish, but Raccoon-Eyes had helped him atone, and his powers had recovered. But now he had violated the trust of his very own spirit-guide, and he would certainly suffer.

He heard Spirit Talker's voice far across the many sleeps and remembered his warning:
“Hold sacred the horns of the deer.”
Spirit Talker had tried to warn him about the dangerous burdens of powerful medicine. Raccoon-Eyes had cautioned him about the dark shadow made by the bright shining light. And still, he had let this thing happen. Tears filled his eyes as he cursed himself for his own stupidity. Already, he was weak. He doubted he could even string his bow, much less draw it. If he should die now—whether killed by enemies or animals or fever or injury—he would suffer evermore in the Shadow Land. The elders said this was a hard fate. Harder than hard.

The hoofbeats of the pony had faded, and Horseback found himself afoot, alone. Not even his spirit-guide would walk with him now, for Sound-the-Sun-Makes was angry, and was even at this moment deciding how to punish the lowly human who had insulted him.

His heart beat furiously with fear, and he fell to his knees, tears blurring his vision. How had he been so stupid? It was his first duty to honor his spirit-guide, and he had been seduced by human games, whirling a rope above his head. He was ashamed, weak, unworthy of his vision. He was vulnerable, helpless. Any enemy who came to him now would easily overpower him, and take him away for enemy women to torture slowly through days of agony. This was probably what the spirits had in store for him. It was just punishment.

He longed to speak to Spirit Talker now, or even his own father, Shaggy Hump. Perhaps one of them would know a means of redemption. What would they say? Whatever it was, it would begin with sweats and purification by cedar smoke. Yes, there was some hope. He would go back to his camp and build a sweat lodge. He would fast and sweat, then sit in his lodge and purify himself with smoke that would carry his prayers of humiliation up to the Great Creator. Perhaps he would be granted a vision that would tell him what he must do to make amends for the terrible affront of the broken antler.

Yes, he would try to be pure and strong again. He rose and began stumbling downhill. This was simply horrible. He was afraid. How could he have been so stupid? Never had he felt so weak and vulnerable. He did not know how his spirit-guide would punish him for this, but the punishment would be severe.

He tried not to think about the vengeance of the Shadow Land because the spirits would only exceed whatever punishment he imagined. If he thought of sickness, the spirits would cripple him. But then, having thought of being crippled, the spirits would make him crazy as well. Crazy and crippled. He would be scorned and laughed at by his own people, and all his afflictions would follow him into the everlasting life of the Shadow Land. While his friends were getting fat on buffalo meat and killing enemies, he would be wandering, crippled and crazy in the Shadow Land.

It was better not to even think of the punishment. Instead he would concentrate on his insolence, and try to figure out how he could keep it from ever happening again. He was almost glad that he was not riding a horse at this moment. He was not worthy of riding. The horse would probably kill him.

“Oh, Sound-the-Sun Makes!” he moaned. “Oh, great spirit-protector. Forgive me this disrespect. Punish me well, Great One. Make me to suffer!”

38

Captain Lujan burned his
fingertips on the pinched end of the cornhusk he had used to roll his
cigarillo.
He put the end of the smoke in his mouth and inhaled until he felt the heat of fire on his lips, then he spat the remaining bit of tobacco and corn husk on the ground. When he spoke, his words came out as smoke.

“Here comes the
padre,
” he said to the three soldiers lounging in the shade of a tall willow on the riverbank. “Look at him. I have led
entradas
into the interior with Padre Ugarte as chaplain. He can pace a man on a walking horse all day long and never fall a step behind. He is a tough bastard.”

The soldiers rose, dusted themselves off, straightened their leather jackets, picked up their lances and rawhide bucklers. They stood looking down the road to Santa Fe until the friar came close enough to speak.

“I was beginning to think I would have to handle this matter without you,
Capitán.
”

Lujan smiled. “I was simply waiting for the most advantageous opportunity,
Padre.
”

“If you had waited any longer, there would be no opportunity at all. The expedition leaves at dawn tomorrow.”

“The timing is lucky. I believe the Comanche will be easy to take.”

Ugarte shaded his eyes with his hand so he could judge the look on Lujan's face. “Why do you think that?”

“I have employed two Apache scouts to watch him. The Apaches hate the Comanches. There was a fight between Acaballo's Comanches and Battle Scar's Apaches at Tachichichi, and now there is bad blood. The scouts tell me that they are ancient enemies with these Comanches, though they have lived far apart for generations.”

Father Ugarte mopped his wool sleeve across his brow. “Enough
Indio
nonsense. Tell me about the Comanche.”

“It is very strange, and for us, very lucky. Acaballo's men are all away on a hunt. He is alone. More important, the scouts tell me he has been going through some kind of purification ritual. He hasn't cooked anything in two days, so we may assume he is fasting. He has made a crude steam tent at the Comanche camp, and he has been sweating for two days. Now he is in his lodge. The scouts smelled cedar smoke and heard strange songs and chants.”

Fray Ugarte's teeth gnashed with anger. “It is time to punish that heretical savage. The idea of such a heathen living among us—even entering my church. It makes me feel the anger of our Lord God in my very Christian heart.”

Lujan gestured toward the horses, and began walking that way. “Have the preparations been made?”

Ugarte swallowed his rage and nodded. “You will act as the agent. One of the trading expedition
aviadores
has agreed to purchase the
genízaro
contract once we have reduced the savage. The
aviador
has connections in the copper mines of Chihuahua. He will advance to you a commission on the Comanche's earnings. Of course, the Mission San Miguel would appreciate any generous contribution the
capitán
would care to make.”

“Your mission will receive its rightful share,
Padre.
This little incident will benefit everyone involved.”

“Yes. Especially Juan Archebeque, and of course the Comanche himself. The seduction of barbaric sorcery is strong,
Capitán.
We must deal with it severely.”

“And so we will,
Padre.
I have chosen three good soldiers. Each is skilled with the
reata.
”

The soldiers mounted and proceeded up the road that flanked the river, the friar keeping pace with their fast walk. Soon, the Comanche camp was in sight around a gentle bend in the road. There, the two Apache spies met the party.

“Capitán,”
one of them said, “the Snake man is back in the sweat lodge. No clothes. No weapons. His lance and shield stand outside his lodge. Bow and arrows and war club inside the lodge.”

Lujan smiled. “This is lucky.”

“It is not luck,” Ugarte argued. “The grace of God goes with us.”

“Of course,” Lujan answered. He turned to his men. “Prepare your nooses. Garcia, you get between the sweat lodge and the Comanche's horses. The rest of us will cut him off from his weapons. If he wants to fight, make him do so with his bare hands. If we get two nooses on him, he is ours. But remember, he is worth no money dead.”

“Wait,” Father Ugarte said. “In case you have to kill him in order to protect yourselves.” He turned to the Comanche camp, murmured a prayer, and made the sign of the cross in the air.

*   *   *

Horseback felt weak and hungry, yet he knew he had not even begun to atone. He felt impure, unable to call on the spirit powers that had served him so well before his careless act of insolence. The fasting and sweating and purification of cedar smoke had only served to prove his sincerity. His punishment and, hopefully, his return to power were yet to come.

He threw another dipper of water upon the rocks he had heated in his lodge while praying and patting himself with cedar smoke. The fire spirits and water spirits made a battle cloud of steam rise in the tiny makeshift sweat lodge constructed of buffalo robes draped over bent willow boughs whose ends had been stuck into the ground. He put the gourd dipper aside and clutched the sacred medicine bundle he usually wore inside his loin skins. Now he was naked, as he had come into the world. The medicine bundle was the only vestige of spirit power left to him.

Outside, he heard his horses nickering, and wondered if his father and his friends were returning. It shamed him to think of them finding him in such a weakened state, all his
puha
drained from him by the vengeful spirits.

Something dropped on the ground outside. A whirring sound, the drumming of hooves. Sunlight burst down on him as the sweat lodge fell apart all around him. Cool air braced him. As he rose in alarm, he could see horsemen between him and his weapons. A noose hit him, tightened before he could lift it over his shoulders. He got one arm out above the noose, but the tightening loop cinched his other arm against his left side. He saw the Black Robe coming down the road as the rope pulled him over the hot rocks of his sweat lodge, scorching his bare feet.

Fear grew like a cold chunk of ice in his stomach, and though he knew his spirit powers and his body were both weak, he found himself hurtling toward the soldier who had thrown the rope on him. He felt like a snared animal whose fear made him fight with ferocity. He ran at the soldier, heard himself snarling, felt his right hand gripping the sacred medicine bundle. The soldier lowered his lance tip to ward off the attack, at the same time moving his pony farther away to keep the loop tight. Horseback reached for the enemy lance and summoned the antelope spirits to make him run faster, but the spirits did not hear. He was reaching for the weapon when the second noose fell around his shoulders.

He almost flung the noose away, but it tightened around his neck and began to choke him. Now his fear burst from his heart like a swarm of bees. They were going to strangle him! The soul could not escape from a True Human killed by strangulation. He would drift nowhere, as nothing, for eternity!

The Black Robe was near now, and Horseback could feel the evil darkness of his shadow. The pain of the tightening nooses shot through him and he realized how hopeless his plight had become. If he did not fight to the death, he would be tortured, for that was the way with captives. If he did fight, he would be strangled, and his soul would never know the Shadow Land.

“Fool!” he croaked, chiding himself. You should have seen the sacred deer antler. Now you will know the wrath of many gods.

The Black Robe was in front of him, speaking to him, pointing to the ground at Horseback's feet. He understood that the Black Robe wanted him to kneel, but he would not Again and again the Black Robe ordered him to kneel, growing angrier each time.

Finally the Black Robe stalked around him and ducked the tight rope that ran from Horseback's neck to the soldier's saddle. He saw the evil holy man wield his staff, heard the air sing, felt the stinging blow on the back of his knees. He kicked ineffectually at the Black Robe and heard the laughter of the soldier who had roped his neck. He swiveled his eyes far enough to recognize this soldier—the warrior leader who gave orders to the others. Even under all his fear, an anger smouldered.

The Black Robe's staff struck him again behind the knees. Then again, and again. Then the ropes began to tighten, and Horseback knew his soul was being buried deep inside his body, never to escape. His powers of vision failed. All he saw was darkness. All he heard was the angry rumble of Sound-the-Sun-Makes. He knew his punishment had just begun.

Cool air tore into his chest, and light flooded him. He felt the pain on the back of his legs where the Black Robe had beaten him, more pain where his knees had hit the rocky ground. Vaguely, he remembered the sensation of his medicine bundle slipping from his hand, and now he knew he was completely powerless.