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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: Follow the Wind
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Lean Bull lay
in the shade of a gigantic old oak tree and waited for time to pass. Not until well after dark would his scouts return to bring word of their quarry. Meanwhile, the war party waited, hidden in a heavily wooded canyon. Some of the warriors gambled, rolling the plum stones on a robe spread skin-side upward. Others slept. Lean Bull was too preoccupied with his thoughts.
Much had happened in the past three suns. First, the hair-faced strangers, seeking a hair-face living among the people of the prairie. From the descriptions, it appeared that the man they sought was Lean Bull's sworn enemy, leader of the Elk-dog people. It had seemed good to pretend to help the travelers, taking their gifts and deluding them with promises of help.
Then there had been the other developments. It had seemed a logical way to punish the unruly slave girl, to give her to one of the strangers.
Sometimes, Lean Bull had wished that he had never seized her. But it had been so easy. He had been on a scouting expedition and had blundered upon the girl, where she should not
have been, and it seemed foolish not to take advantage of the situation. He rode down on her with his horse, scooped the running girl to the back of the animal, and made his retreat. She had fought like a spotted cat and finally he had been forced to knock her half-senseless with the handle of his war club to quiet her.
And that, he recalled, had been only the beginning. Lean Bull had several wives, as was the custom among his people. Still, he took the captive girl to wife, his right by tradition as her captor. Unless, of course, he wanted to sell her. He probably should have done that. Instead, he tried, by every means he could think of, to break the girl's spirit and bring her under his command.
True, she did as she was told, but her attitude never changed. She was proud, defiant, even cheerful. The way she sang at difficult, malodorous tasks became infuriating to Lean Bull. He actually began to worry a little. Sooner or later, he knew she would try to escape. When she did, it was not impossible that she might also try to kill her captor. Such things had happened and this defiant woman would be just the sort to try such a crazy thing.
Then, when the strangers came, Lean Bull thought of an ideal scheme. At least, it seemed so at the time. He knew that among the tribe of the captive girl, women were regarded differently. They were not bought and sold, even captive women. This seemed wasteful to Lean Bull, but he had heard that it went even further. Women of South Wind's tribe, he had heard, could even own property and could speak in the councils.
What an excellent way, he schemed, to teach a woman with such ideas her proper place. He would give her to one of the hairy strangers, to do with as he wished. The young subchief who appeared to be the leader of the hair-faced warriors. When that one was finished with her, he would probably give her to some of his spearmen. By the time they had spent the night with her, the girl should be happy with her lot in the lodge of Lean Bull.
But something had gone wrong. Apparently, the young chief had kept her for himself all night and the two had become friends. That the pretty young captive would prefer the
company of a hair-faced stranger to his own became intolerable to Lean Bull. His scheme had turned sour and was replaced by the bitterness of jealousy.
His hatred focused on Cabeza and, especially after the incident with the knife, Lean Bull had decided. That one must die and he would take great delight in carrying out the act.
Yet, even before he was able to accomplish this, another insult was heaped upon Lean Bull. The girl had disappeared and, with her, his best buffalo horse. Slow-witted old Elk Woman had actually seen the girl go and had said nothing till morning. She professed to think that the captive was only watering the stallion.
Lean Bull was certain that the hair-faced young chief was involved, but could not prove it. No matter. When darkness came, he would have the pleasure of cutting that one's throat. He fully expected to find the escaped captive in the travelers' camp also. Maybe he would cut her throat, too. It seemed a waste, but she had been such a problem so far.
Yes, that was probably best. He would have his vengeance and would claim not only his own horse, but the black stallion of the hair-face. Let the others divide the supplies and goods the strangers carried.
So intent was Lean Bull on his revenge, that he decided to forego one of the basic taboos of his people. It was widely believed among the Head Splitters that a person dying during the night risks losing his soul. The disembodied spirit, lost in the darkness, may wander forever. For this reason, they would rarely engage in battle during the hours of darkness.
Lean Bull, confident in his ruse to surprise the stranger, had planned his attack at night. The travelers, he assured his followers, would be as helpless as an orphan buffalo calf before wolves. There would be no risk at all. They could creep among the sleeping men and, at a signal, wield the massive stone war elubs that were the mark of their tribe.
Except, Lean Bull brooded, he wished to use the knife. It would be so gratifying if the hated hair-face were able to know, for a moment before he died, who his assailant was. Then Lean Bull could use his war club on the girl and the others as opportunity presented.
Darkness finally descended and Lean Bull rolled in his buffalo robe to sleep a bit while waiting for the scouts. It seemed forever and he slept little. He had just dozed off when there was a stirring in the camp. He tossed aside his robe and reached for his weapons.
“They are camped where we expected?”
“Yes, my chief,” the scout nodded. “I can show you where the young hair-faced leader sleeps.”
It was good.
“What of the girl?”
The scout spread his palms in perplexity.
“The girl is not with them.”
Lean Bull crawled
forward, one of the scouts at his elbow. Peering through the fringe of brush, he could see a clearing in the dim starlight. Recumbent figures lay scattered about the area and dying fires smoldered without giving light.
The scout pointed ahead, indicating two figures close together on the west side of the encampment.
“The old chief and the young war chief,” he whispered.
Lean Bull nodded.
“The young chief is mine. His black horse, also.”
The black stallion and a gray mare grazed on picket lines nearby.
“Yes, my chief.”
He pointed beyond the camp.
“There are thin woods to the north. Those we do not kill will run there and we can hunt them in the morning.”
“It is good.”
The two squirmed backward and made their way back to the rest of the party, waiting beyond the next range of hills.
A small fire burned low. Lean Bull squatted and beckoned his warriors.
By the light of the fire, he sketched a rude map showing the scattered slopes, the fires, and the semicircle of woods on the north.
“We will crawl up close. I will cut the throat of the young war chief first, so they are without a leader. Then, when I give the war cry, we will all strike the others. We can divide their supplies and horses in the morning.”
Quietly, the group moved out, following single file the route indicated by the scouts. There was still plenty of darkness left when they arrived in the vicinity of the travelers' camp. In silence, the warriors spread in an attack line and began to crawl forward toward their assault positions.
When everyone seemed ready, Lean Bull snaked forward, wriggling flat on his belly, raising his head ever so slightly to keep proper direction. A horse stomped and nickered softly and he dropped flat for a long moment to see if any activity ensued. There was none.
The crawler neared his quarry and paused to look around for a sentry. He saw none and reflected for a moment on the stupidity of the strangers.
Now he could see the long form of the sleeper before him. The sleeping robe was drawn up around the ears and it appeared that the man's back was toward him. Lean Bull slipped the razor-sharp flint knife from his waist and took it firmly in his right hand. It would be a simple matter now to slide close enough to throw back the robe, grasp the hair with his left hand, and make one swift slash across the throat with the blade.
He flipped the blanket aside and the grasping left hand encountered no hair, but a smooth, hard surface. What he had taken for the head of the sleeper rolled away, a smooth, round stone. His sequence of motion already begun, the knife was already thrusting downward, but slashed across emptiness. It glanced off the rotted end of the log which stimulated a sleeping body.
Confused, unwilling to admit that he had been duped, Lean Bull voiced the yipping war cry of his tribe and the others
rushed forward. Now several of the recumbent figures showed signs of life. A heavy multiple twang could be plainly heard as the Spanish crossbowmen released a volley. Shooting from the prone position, they had their unsuspecting targets silhouetted against the night sky. The short, heavy crossbow bolts found their marks with deadly accuracy. At least four Head Splitters would, this very night, have the opportunity to test the tradition of souls wandering in darkness.
The others pressed forward, swinging clubs at the bundled robes. There were exclamations of astonishment as the weapons struck logs, stones, and brush.
At that moment, there was a shout and a rush from the fringe of the scrubby trees. Cabeza led the charge, with a lance at the ready before him. At his side was Don Pedro himself, exuberantly wielding his great sword and roaring with the joy of joining battle once more. Close behind came the lancers, fighting on foot, closing in from the wings of the half circle of trees. Scattered among the professional soldiers were the Garcia servants, armed with an odd assortment of short swords, knives, even sticks, clubs, and stones.
The entire effect was too much for the surprised Head Splitters. The warriors broke and ran, followed by another volley of crossbow bolts. Only one or two of the lancers were even able to overtake a fleeing adversary.
Cabeza called them back from pursuit. It would make little sense to run into the darkness after armed warriors.
Now Lean Bull called together the angry remnants of his war party. There was much shouting and accusation. Everyone had lost friends in the attack and their leader's credibility was badly damaged.
“Our chief has gone mad over that cursed girl!” someone accused.
“We should never have attacked at night!”
Lean Bull held up a hand for attention.
“Listen, my friends! We did not know that these strangers like to fight in the dark. Now we do, so we will avoid it. We will attack them after daylight. They are few and many of them are not even warriors. We must avenge our fallen friends.”
In the end, the possibility of revenge became the overpowering emotion. Lean Bull was not without his powers of persuasion and he was known as a leader in battle. Soon enthusiasm for the kill returned. The entire party took the back trail to retrieve their horses. Only Lean Bull and one scout remained to observe and plan.
Dawn was breaking by the time the others returned, leading the horses of the fallen, as well as those of Lean Bull and the scout. The interval had allowed time for the warriors to work themselves into a frenzy of excitement.
“We must be cautious,” Lean Bull warned. “Let us wait until they are spread out on the trail. Then we can strike and scatter them.”
He took his horse from the man who led it and moved to an area near the top of the slope. Here they could relax and observe the travelers as they prepared to move out.
Don Pedro was
exuberant as the sun rose that morning. His party had repulsed the attack without loss of life. The only casualties were two. A lancer's left eye and cheek were grossly swollen from a glancing blow with a war club and one of the servants limped painfully. He had run into a jagged rock in the dark.
The old don worried not at all at the treachery they had experienced. That was only to be expected. Such were the ways of diplomacy. He could remember well a campaign in northern Italy, many years ago. During the course of things, they had spent a delightful evening drinking and carousing with the dragoons of a local governor's military unit. Next day, they had been attacked by the same troops. No matter. There were no hard feelings. Each was only doing his job.
And it was only the same with these savages, Don Pedro thought. He had tried bribery and failed. No, not completely. They had had a pleasant interlude, secured provisions, and had learned of the hair-faced chief of some other tribe. That might be valuable information.
True, the facts were sketchy. Young Cabeza was inclined to attribute that to the fact that the hair-face was considered an enemy by the Head Splitters. He was probably correct. In addition, that fact did nothing to enhance any ties of friendship between that tribe and the travelers.
Then there was the matter of the girl. It was too bad she had disappeared. She might have given much valuable information. The young lieutenant, however, had spent many hours with her. Undoubtedly pleasant hours, Garcia chuckled to himself. More importantly, he had learned much from the girl about the hair-faced chief of her people. The old man was impressed that the basic facts were correct—in time, place, and circumstance.
He longed to question the girl himself. Perhaps she would return or maybe they would encounter some of her people. At any rate, their course seemed clear. They must move in a northerly direction and let come what might.
A more pressing problem was that of the Head Splitters. The little group of travelers had successfully met a surprise attack. They had killed four and, from the bloodstains discovered in the camp after daylight, at least three more had been severely wounded, to crawl away in the darkness.
Some of the party were certain that the savages had been taught a lesson. They would not return after so disastrous a rout. Don Pedro, the old campaigner, disagreed. Unless he judged his man very wrongly, he thought the one called Lean Bull would never give up. And, of course, Don Pedro's profession was the judging of men and their tenacity.
Evaluating last night's surprise raid, Don Pedro thought it merely an error of judgment on Lean Bull's part. The thing had looked too easy and the man had simply underestimated his adversary. An easy mistake. One he might have made himself in younger days, he reflected.
Now, the question was, what would the savages do next? As Don Pedro saw it, there were two possibilities. Another attack was certain, the only question being when it would come.
The party which had accompanied them as an escort the previous day had been only about the size of their own. It was
now somewhat smaller, with the loss of at least four men. Furthermore, their intended victims were now forewarned of the danger.
The prudent thing for Lean Bull to do would be to send back for more warriors. They would be needed for an all-out assault. Of course, it would take nearly two days for the reinforcements to return to this point and the travelers would be moving in the meantime, forcing rapid pursuit.
This brought the other possibility to mind, that Lean Bull would strike immediately. There were advantages to this plan. He could send for reinforcements, but meanwhile attack and harass the travelers. This would delay their progress until the other warriors arrived.
Either way, it seemed likely that there would be some sort of attack before the day was out.
Don Pedro threw the saddle on the gray mare and tightened the girth. He had always insisted on saddling his own horse. No one else could quite do it properly.
He glanced around the camp. There was a general feeling of optimism at the success of the defense. That was good, but not too much so. They must be cautioned.
Ramon Cabeza approached, leading his black horse.
“
Señor
Garcia, I would speak with you. I think we will be attacked today.”
It is good, thought Don Pedro. This young man, son of my friend, will make a great leader. He has already anticipated the enemy's moves. I will not have to explain it to him.
“Yes, Lieutenant, what do you plan?”
“I think,
señor
, we should push north as rapidly as possible. We may be able to keep ahead of any reinforcements they send for.”
Garcia nodded noncommittally and was inwardly pleased. Ramon was planning well. He was equally pleased to note that there was no question of changing direction or turning black. The major quest of the expedition was not even questioned. It would go forward.
Cabeza spoke briefly to the group prior to departure. He warned of impending attack and redistributed his forces. Lancers would ride four abreast, two squads before and two
behind, instead of the usual double file. This would shorten the column and make it less vulnerable to scattering if they were struck.
Likewise, those on foot were placed in the middle of the column of march for their protection. If attack came, the lancers would circle to form a perimeter with the baggage and foot servants in the center, along with the crossbowmen. The plan was a good one, Don Pedro thought. He could have done no better himself.
The bowmen were not happy with this new arrangement. They had been leading the column directly behind the three officers of the party. It was bad enough to follow three horses, they grumbled. Now they were behind two whole squads of mounted lancers. Such an indignity was unworthy of weapons specialists such as they. Still, the grumbling was minimal and allegiance to Cabeza was strong. Had the lieutenant not executed the successful defense last night?
Everyone was urged to drink well and to fill all available waterskins at the cold spring beside the camp. The horses were watered and the command to mount rang out.
They would travel as rapidly as the pace of those on foot would allow. There would be only brief rest stops and, at least for today, there would be no noon halt.

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