Comanche Dawn (59 page)

Jean wrapped his grip around the knife hilt and said, “You are a thief, Casaubon, and as such you deserve no quarter. If you do not take that gold chain from your neck, you will not leave this lodge alive.”

“Too late for that,” Casaubon said. “My Osage guard has already ridden off into the night with the rest of your gold cache. This I cannot return, no matter how fiercely you threaten me. I love the treason, but hate the traitor. The die is cast.
Iacta alea est.
”

The suddenness with which Casaubon moved startled Jean, and made every muscle in his body convulse. He saw the blade of the cutlass sweep back for the blow, and he instinctively curled himself into a ball and rolled forward, under the path of the sword. Somersaulting, he saw the blur of Horseback's buffalo robe flying as if by magic into the air. He heard the cutlass strike the post he had been leaning against—a muffled ring of metal and a sharp thud of wood. He felt his shoulders hit hard, then drew the knife as he rolled to his feet. He whirled to his right and slashed backhanded with the blade.

He felt the tip of the knife rake a long wound across Casaubon's shoulder, saw the slaver's head jerk with the pain, as a turtle would retreat into its shell.

Casaubon released his right hand from the sword hilt and pulled with his left to dislodge the blade from the heavy post, but now Horseback was upon him, grinning, striking with the only weapon a Foolish One would carry into battle. The blunt stub of the buffalo scrotum rattle jabbed Casaubon in the eye, driving his head back until his ugly grimace faced the ceiling. His mouth opened, and his groan of agony seemed to roll into the thunder above.

Blankets and robes began to toss about the dim lodge like waves sloshing in a barrel, yet no voice called out, as every man had enemies to awaken.

Casaubon grabbed Horseback by the throat as he fell backward, and began to snap his gapped teeth viciously at the Foolish One's face. Horseback landed on top of the slaver, then used his weight to roll to one side, exposing the bald man's vitals to attack from his white friend, Raccoon-Eyes.

Jean saw his opening and jumped onto the two men, driving his sharp knife deep between Casaubon's ribs, where a hunter would drive an arrow into a buffalo. Casaubon's head lolled back, blood flowing from his eye. His mouth gaped, and would have screamed, but Echo-of-the-Wolf had landed on the dying slaver and stuffed the corner of a blanket into his mouth.

As Jean scrambled away from the horrible bloody pile, he saw Night Hunter bolt for the thatched door. The Raccoon-Eyed elder screamed a warning cry that was half-lost in a peal of thunder, then Speaks Twice drove a knife into the elder's chest, lifting him from the ground as he clamped his palm over Night Hunter's mouth. Speaks Twice slammed the Quiviran chief to the ground, withdrew his knife, stabbed again. Night Hunter squirmed under him, and blood flowed from the hand Speaks Twice used to muffle the elder's cries. Grimacing at the pain of his bitten hand, the translator managed to hold on until death clouded Night Hunter's eyes.

“He would have called the others,” Speaks Twice explained, in Spanish, to Jean. “The Raccoon-Eyed People would avenge the killing of the bald one.”

Jean sheathed his knife and shook his head. He realized that he was panting for breath, and every muscle in his body felt near to paralysis. Then he heard the voice calling from the next lodge, barely audible through the rainstorm and the thatched walls. His breath caught in his throat as he strained to hear.

“Elder!” the voice cried. “Do you call?”

Jean looked down at the bleeding body of Night Hunter. “Tell the Foolish Ones to laugh,” he said to Speaks Twice. A sick feeling began to grow in the pit of stomach. “Tell them!”

Speaks Twice gave the order with signs, his hand bleeding badly from Night Hunter's bite. Horseback began to chuckle, jabbing Echo. They laughed together, and cajoled their Comanche brothers into joining them. The laughter quickly died, and all listened through the patter of rain.

Jean barely heard the chuckle from the neighboring lodge. Then faintly, so faintly, he heard the words in the Raccoon-Eyed tongue: “They drink Bald Man's fire water.”

Jean raised his hands, as if conducting an orchestra, and the Foolish Ones made more laughter roll. But Jean could not even try to join the Comanches. He looked at Speaks Twice, and saw his same feelings of unavoidable remorse and shame in the translator's face. He knew Speaks Twice would not take Night Hunter's scalp. They lifted the Quiviran elder and carried him to his bed. Jean crossed the dead man's arms over his chest, and signaled for an end to the ridiculous laughter. He covered Night Hunter with a good robe, and wiped the blood from his hands on a French trade blanket.

Horseback took the gold chain from Casaubon's neck and handed it to Jean as he approached. “The yellow metal made the bald one go crazy.”

Jean nodded. “The yellow metal, and the fire water,” he said in a low voice. He took the chain with the cross, and considered for a moment tossing it into the ashes of the dying fire. But the craziness was in him, too, and he knew he must keep the gold. “We must sneak away before dawn. I must go after the Osage guard who took the rest of the yellow metal. I do not expect you to come with me. This trade has gone bad.”

“You should forget the yellow metal,” Horseback replied. “Let the tall Osage have it. Yet, if you must go after it, I will ride with you. It is true the trade has gone bad, but my medicine stays strong. I want to see the country of the Osage in the east. I may want it for my own country.”

Jean frowned, but he knew he could not change Horseback's faith in his spirit powers. He kicked a bloody robe on top of Casaubon to cover the ugly sight. “You saved my life from the bald one. You are welcome to ride with me.”

Horseback glanced at the pool of blood where Night Hunter had died. “Now you are an enemy to your own nation of Raccoon-Eyed People,” he said. “You were rich with the Metal Men. You should have stayed with them.”

Jean shook his head. “You do not understand. The Metal Men let me stay there only as long as I make them rich, too. I am a slave to their god of yellow metal.”

Horseback rubbed his throat where the bald man had attempted to strangle him. “When you have no nation left, Raccoon-Eyes, come to my camp. I will give you a pony, and a good lodge, and a lance to hunt the buffalo. You will have a good woman, and plenty of good country to ride over. Then you will know the meaning of wealth.”

Jean could not help smiling. He felt the horrors of bloody death begin to slip behind him, and knew he would have the will to go ahead. Horseback was a good friend—and wise.

53

Horseback rode between his
friends, Raccoon-Eyes and Speaks Twice. Their ponies traveled eastward at a long walk that verged on a trot, but felt much smoother. Behind these three leaders rode Echo-of-the-Wolf, Shaggy Hump, and the Grasshopper Eater called Crazy Eyes.

“This country is no good,” Horseback said, trying to make Raccoon-Eyes's heart lighter. “The grass is too tall. It rains too much. Everything looks so green that my eyes hurt. The buffalo are always getting in the way.”

Raccoon-Eyes smirked. “Do not grow too fond of this country, Foolish One. It belongs to the Osage. They are fierce, and they number many.”

“I do not want to know about the Osage,” Horseback said, comically cupping his hand behind his ear.

The tattooed white man rolled his eyes. He had been in a poor humor since the trouble at Quivira, and he was not in the mood for the antics of a Foolish One. “You remember the bald man's Osage guard at Quivira,” he said. “He was tall, but some of their warriors are even taller. They fight well. They run like antelope-men. I have never seen it, but I am told that they can catch ponies by the tail and throw them down.”

Horseback laughed. “Now who speaks more foolishly? You or I?”

“It is true,” Raccoon-Eyes insisted. “Keep your pony fresh.”

Horseback whirled to face the rear of his mount, holding his reins behind his back. He signaled with one heel and a tug of one rein, and the pony turned around and began to walk backward, keeping pace with the other mounts.

“What are you doing?” Raccoon-Eyes said, sounding irritated.

“I am going to back my pony until he gets fresh again.”

Raccoon-Eyes cracked a smile for the first time since leaving Quivira in the dark and rain. “Tell me, Foolish One. How do you make your pony walk backward with a loose rein?”

Horseback whirled his pony back around and spoke in his normal voice so the white man would know he meant no foolishness. “Start with a tight rein. That is the signal to back up. When the pony starts back, you must loosen the rein and feel joy in your heart. Let the pony feel this joy, and he will be happy to walk backward. He will go that way as long as you feel joy.”

“You must make the pony part of yourself?” Jean said, following with the sign that meant he was asking a question.

“That is only half.”

“What is the other half?”

“You must make yourself part of the pony. Feel what the pony feels. If he gets tired of walking backward, you must get tired of it, too. You must know that if you fail to serve as the pony's eyes, and he steps on something that hurts him, you have hurt yourself, for he will no longer serve you. Unless you are only going to cook and eat that pony at the end of the ride, you must make yourself a part of him.”

Raccoon-Eyes thought about that in silence as they rode on, and Horseback simply admired the land. Never had he dreamed of a country so rich. His moccasins were lost in the seedy tops of grasses that the horses tried constantly to crop as they walked. Across distant hillsides, he could see small herds of buffalo. Trees stood on some of the ridges and in the low crevices between hills. The day was cloudy and warm, and the air strangely sticky. A breeze from the south made the tall grasses ripple like the waters of a great lake.

The trail of the tall Osage guard was plain before them, a line of bent-over grass stretching eastward, almost arrow-straight. They had snuck out of Quivira in the night, leaving their three pole-drags loaded with hides and furs. They had taken all the ponies of the Quivirans. Raccoon-Eyes said it made his heart feel bad, but it had to be done to keep the warriors of Quivira from chasing them down. Bear Heart, Trotter, and the Grasshopper Eater called Crooked Teeth had taken all the captured horses westward. Raccoon-Eyes and the others were to catch and kill the Osage guard, recover the stolen yellow metal, and turn westward to catch up with the captured horses.

Unlike Raccoon-Eyes, Horseback felt good. He had agreed to this trade expedition to get horses, and he was getting more than he had imagined, since stealing the horses from Quivira. He was not afraid of the Quivirans, but they had many more warriors than his small party. It was a good idea to take their horses. Besides, their horses were fat.

It was true that things had gone bad at the village of grass houses last night. The death of Night Hunter and the theft of the horses would likely make enemies of the Comanches and the Raccoon-Eyed People, though it had been the
Tiwa,
Speaks Twice, who had actually killed the Raccoon-Eyed elder. None of this worried Horseback. He was accustomed to having enemies. He felt bad for Raccoon-Eyes, whose trade had gone all wrong, but he was seeing plenty of new country and enjoying much foolishness. As long as his medicine remained strong, he rode with confidence and thought about the many stories he would tell Teal and Sandhill when he returned to his camp on the River of Arrowheads.

Looking up, he saw Whip riding back to the party, having gone ahead to scout. Whip had been worthless during the whole trip, and Horseback had begun to think he had come along merely to make things difficult. Last night's fight with the bald Flower Man had not been Whip's fault, of course, but every other little nuisance could be traced to him. The mere fact that he had volunteered to ride ahead as scout made Horseback uneasy, though he had said nothing, thinking it would be good to get rid of Whip for a while.

When he rejoined the other riders, Whip's pony was winded and white with frothy sweat. “I have found the pony of the tall Osage guard,” he said. “The Osage rode it to death. He has gone on afoot.”

“How far?” Raccoon-Eyes asked.

Whip pointed. “The dead pony lies over the second ridge. The Osage cannot be far beyond.”

Horseback noticed dark stains on Whips hands when he pointed. “Why do you have blood on your hands?” he asked.

“I made meat. I wish to eat something better than horse meat after we get the yellow metal back from the Osage.”

“What meat? Where?”

“Let us catch the Osage. Then we will worry about the meat.”

Raccoon-Eyes seemed to agree. He urged his pony forward, and the party began to lope. Over the first ridge, Horseback saw the side trail where Whip had ventured into some timber to kill his meat. He had probably spotted a fat cow or a buffalo calf through the trees and used the timber as cover to get close enough for an arrow shot.

The grasslands rolled on, dotted with stands of timber. They rode near one stand, and Horseback noticed strange things about one of the trees. The bark was rough like the scab of a bad wound. The large coarse leaves had soft hairs underneath.

“What is that tree?” he asked. “I have never seen it before.”

“Slippery elm,” Raccoon-Eyes answered, offering a glance at the tree. “The nations of the timber country make good medicine from its bark. Tea for coughs and poultices for wounds.”

Over the second ridge, they found the dead pony. Two coyotes were already sneaking toward it. Approaching the carcass, they found that the Osage had cut the horse's belly open to eat the raw liver.

“This Osage knows how to use a pony,” Shaggy Hump said. “It is better to count ribs than tracks.”

“He is afoot now,” said Whip. “We will catch him easily.”