[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (21 page)

Especially his own son Jackrabbit, still unseasoned but eager to learn. Whippoorwill had finally presented him with a son after he had given up on his wives having anything but daughters. This was to be Jackrabbit's first major raid.

They traveled rapidly once they had put the river behind them. At one point they saw a distant campfire, and some of the young men wanted to investigate. Buffalo Caller dissuaded them. The fire might belong to a few hunters, and a hunter camp was unlikely to yield as many horses as could be expected deeper in the white men's country. Or it might belong to the Texan warrior society, in which case an attack would only stir up an unnecessary fight and gain few, if any, horses. The rangers seldom took with them more than one mount per man, and they did not easily give them up.

He knew the way well, for he had hunted buffalo all over this region south of the Clay-Colored River in the time before the white men had come to dominance. He took precautions to travel as much as possible on hard ground where tracks would not be obvious, though there was no way to avoid them altogether. When the riders came to a narrow stream that flowed in the general direction he wanted to travel, he had them put their horses into it and avoid the muddy banks, which would preserve sign of their passage. They rode until sunrise, then pulled out onto a gravel bed and took shelter in a heavy stand of scrub oak.

Buffalo Caller was well aware of the minutemen patrols that watched for raiding parties' tracks. He wished for rain that would wash away all sign, but for a long time now, the skies had yielded no moisture. The winds were dry. Given time enough, wind could destroy tracks, too. If he could not have rain, then he hoped the spirits would give him wind. It might blow dust into the eyes of the rangers so they would not see what lay at their horses' feet.

He looked critically at Broken Leg, asking how his friend was enduring the ride though he knew Broken Leg would not admit it if he were dying of pain. "Ask the young men how
they
are doing," Broken Leg replied. "I have been on many long rides before."

Too many, Buffalo Caller thought. "If you become too tired, turn back. There is no need for you to hurt yourself."

He gave men and horses a few hours to rest, then mounted and reentered the stream that would swallow their tracks. He and the others were stripped for war, traveling light so they could move swiftly when the time came. They counted on their ability to endure hunger and live off the land. They could feast when they returned home with the prizes of war.

Buffalo Caller rode far out in the lead, where he could detect any hazards before the others were exposed. He knew the risk of traveling by day, but the party could not spare the time to move only at night. They needed the visibility of a full moon for the horse-stealing phase of the trip, and it would be gone if they tarried too long on the way.

They held up once and dismounted to make themselves less conspicuous when Buffalo Caller spotted two wagons moving in a northerly direction, directly in their path. The young warriors coveted the horses that pulled the wagons, but he pointed out again that larger rewards awaited them if they would be patient and not reveal their presence too early. Once they struck, the countryside would be alerted and their only recourse would be a fast retreat with whatever booty they had managed to take.

Their third night brought them to a valley where Buffalo Caller remembered that white farmers had plowed up much of the grass to grow corn and cotton and feed for their many horses. "This is the place," he said. "We will go to the end, then come back up the valley and gather all the horses and mules we can find."

Broken Leg had lagged much of the day, catching up only at nightfall when the others slowed their pace. He slumped on his horse, plainly tired but admitting nothing. "I remember this valley. Here we killed many buffalo."

"A long time ago," Buffalo Caller said. "Now there are no buffalo, only spotted cattle." Perhaps if the white men's war continued long enough, the
teibos
would kill off one another and the buffalo would return. He had eaten flesh of cattle but found it not so strong or so rich with flavor as that of the buffalo. To his taste, even mule meat was better.

He looked up. The moon was in its brightest phase. They would need all of its light to see by as they swept the farms clean of their riding and draft stock.

Past the last farm, where the valley flattened out into a long and gentle downward slope toward a distant river, he halted and reined his pony around. "Let us gather horses." The warriors spread out in an irregular line and started back in the direction they had come. In a short time they were pushing ahead of them more horses and mules than he could count on his fingers four times over, and much of the valley still lay ahead.

This, he thought, was going to be one of the greatest raids of his life. He put aside the pain which had invaded his joints. Exhilaration overwhelmed any feeling of fatigue. He looked for his son and was pleased to see Jackrabbit riding ahead of the other young men. His gaze sought out Broken Leg, who appeared as invigorated as Buffalo Caller felt. Perhaps it was right after all that he had brought his friend.

They came to a farm where half a dozen horses and mules stood inside a closed pen. When one of the young men tried to open the gate, a rifle blasted, and for a second or two the burning of gunpowder lighted an open area between two sections of a cabin. Yelping like coyotes, two of the young men rushed the rifleman and struck him down before he had time to reload. They burst through a door. Buffalo Caller heard a woman scream in fear, then cry out again in agony. The cry was cut short.

Buffalo Caller rushed to the cabin and pushed through the door in time to see Jackrabbit dragging live coals out of a fireplace and spreading them across the rough wood floor. Buffalo Caller quickly raked the coals back onto the hearth. "White men farther up the valley might see the fire. They would know we are coming."

"I did not consider such a thing, Father," the young warrior said ruefully.

"You must learn to think, or you will not live to be an elder."

On the dog run, the other warrior was taking the fallen rifleman's scalp. He held it up for Buffalo Caller to see, along with the longer hair of the woman.

"She was with child," the warrior said. "So we have killed three."

Buffalo Caller was more interested in the fact that the echo of the rifle shot might have carried a long way up the valley. "You will have time later to show off your scalps. We are losing too much of the night."

Looking back, he almost wished he had let his son burn the cabin. He would like to burn all the cabins and leave no trace that white men had ever come. They were, to him, a curse upon a land once pure and fruitful, now despoiled by plows and cattle and hogs.

By daylight the warriors passed over a hill that marked the upper end of the valley. In front of them, strung out over a considerable distance, trotted a large band of horses and mules. Buffalo Caller tried to count them by fours but gave up after two attempts brought him two different answers. They were enough. Now the challenge would be to get them out of the country without being stopped by the white men's warriors.

He asked Broken Leg, "Are you all right?"

Broken Leg beamed with delight. "I am a young man again."

"Good, for we have two long days' ride ahead of us before we reach the river. Even the young men will be feeling old."

He was aware of pursuit, though it was tentative and did not press hard. He saw two horsemen trailing a comfortable distance behind. It would be folly for two men to attack the raiders, but they could hang back and keep the horse herd in sight, hoping for reinforcement somewhere ahead. He tried to ignore them, but after half a day they irritated him like an itch he could not scratch away.

He picked two of the young men he judged to be the most seasoned and told Broken Leg, "Keep the horses moving. We will catch up when we have swatted the gnats behind us."

He led his two warriors out into a thicket and motioned for them to dismount. They squatted on their moccasined heels to wait. Patience was drilled into potential hunters and warriors from the time they were boys. It was as much a part of their training as learning accuracy with the bow, for often they were forced to lie in wait for hours until game approached close enough to kill.

The two white riders passed the thicket. They were too intent upon the heavily marked trail to see the three men, even had the warriors not been so well hidden. One of the young men arose, and Buffalo Caller motioned for him to crouch again. "We will wait until they are well past, then we will come up behind them."

The surprise was swift and complete. The white men were unaware of danger until the three Comanches were within easy arrow range. By then it was too late even to bring a rifle into play. They fell, and the two younger men had a scalp apiece to show off when they returned in triumph to the larger group.

Buffalo Caller gave the two bodies but a quick glance, for the white men were of little interest to him once they were dead. The young warriors tied the fresh scalps to their horses' manes and took the reins of the two mounts they had just acquired. They led them into a trot, then into a lope as Buffalo Caller set the pace. They were a long while in catching up to the rest. He slipped the bridles from the horses' heads so the animals would not trip on the reins. He tied the bridles to the saddles, which he left in place. He did not like white-man saddles himself, but probably he could trade them to someone who did.

They were within half a day of the river when a group of horsemen appeared without warning over a low hill and fanned out in challenge. Buffalo Caller had begun to hope he and his party would escape unscathed, but he saw that it was not to be. He stopped and counted the horsemen, who were as yet far beyond arrow range. They might simply be aroused citizens, who sometimes fought bravely but usually not well. On the other hand they might be rangers, better organized and savage in a fight, tenacious as hungry wolves.

Several of the young warriors gathered around him, eager for combat. Buffalo Caller counted the white men a second time and knew they fell well short of the Comanches in number. He pointed to several of the warriors, including his son, and told them to put the horse herd into a run. "The rest of us will stay behind and hold back the Texans."

The young men protested. They all wanted to participate in the battle. Buffalo Caller reasoned, "We have traveled far and endured much for these horses. Do you want to lose them now?"

The young men quarreled over who should stay with the horses and who should seek the glory of killing more Texans. Buffalo Caller saw that his arguments were useless. There would always be more horses. One sought battle honors wherever the opportunity presented itself. He took a long look at the herd, which was becoming more strung out and more scattered as it pulled away from the quarreling warriors.

He could understand the young men's wish for glory. He had known it himself when he was their age. Now he had gained glory enough over the years, and he had a high appreciation for the value of horses.

Reluctantly he said, "Let us make a quick fight of it, then, so we do not lose everything we came for."

The young men yelped and shouted and charged wildly toward the Texans. Buffalo Caller thought he saw confusion in the ranks of the whites. He hoped they would scatter and run. If they did, the fight would degenerate into a race, and death would come swiftly for those whites who rode slow horses.

To his dismay, the white men stepped down from their saddles, dropped to their knees, and aimed their rifles at the warriors who bore down upon them. A quick rattle of gunfire left two horses riderless and a third horse down. Buffalo Caller saw Jackrabbit still astride and was thankful he was not one of the fallen.

He hoped the warriors could overwhelm the Texans while they paused to reload their rifles, but it quickly became evident that some had held their fire to avoid such a calamity. They spaced their shots so their line would not have all its rifles empty at one time. Buffalo Caller felt sure then that these were rangers.

The Comanche charge broke up, the warriors reeling back uncertainly. The rangers immediately remounted their horses and made a charge of their own.

A ranger spurred straight toward him, rifle in his hands. Buffalo Caller strung an arrow in his bow. The ranger's hat blew off, and Buffalo Caller was startled to see that his hair was red. Old dreams, long pushed aside but never forgotten, flashed in his mind like a flare of gunpowder. Even as he released the string and let the arrow fly he knew it would miss.

The ranger fired the rifle, but the motion of his horse spoiled his aim. Buffalo Caller heard and felt the impact of the bullet striking his pony in the chest. Before he could jump free, he was slammed against the ground. The crushing weight of the pony rolled over him, pressing him hard into the dirt. He tried to crawl free, but his leg was pinned.

He grasped desperately for the bow that had fallen in front of him. He clawed at the ground but could not quite reach the bow. He strained to pull himself forward. His heart pounded hard as he tried again to reach the bow and failed though he stretched every muscle in the effort. He felt that his medicine had soured. Helpless, he steeled himself to receive the bullet that would kill him.

The ranger's black horse was wild-eyed, nostrils flaring in excitement. In the saddle, the ranger seemed to tower above Buffalo Caller like the high walls of The People's winter encampment. Numb, suddenly cold, Buffalo Caller saw that the man was young, like the warriors in the raiding party. The black horse danced nervously, threatening to run away. The ranger drew a pistol from its holster and tried to bring the horse under control.

Buffalo Caller spoke to his spirits, asking them to he ready to receive him, for the ranger was too close. He could not miss.

He heard a shout. Broken Leg galloped up, bow in his hand, an arrow fitted against the string. The ranger whirled and hastily fired his pistol. Broken Leg's arrow drove into the young Texan's leg. With a cry of pain, the ranger dropped his rifle and bent over in the saddle, losing his hold on the reins. His horse broke into a run, away from the fight.