A Tale Out of Luck (19 page)
“You know what the Wolf said about those arrows in the dead man we saw at Fort Jennings?” Skeeter added. “He said those were
ghost arrows
.”
Jubal caught both boys gawking at him. “Well, don’t look at me. I may be a ghost to them Indians, but the only bow I ever held is the one that goes with my fiddle.”
“Who do you think killed that man?”
“I don’t know, but here’s what I do know. That brave, the Wolf, is gonna survive his wound—them Comanches are tougher than a damn rawhide boot. The Wolf will be horseback again by the time the next light moon rises. You know what that means?”
The two cowboys looked at each other.
Jubal shook his head at the greenhorns. “Comanches believe in revenge. The Wolf is gonna raise a war party, and he’ll come back to get even with anybody he thinks wronged him. Maybe against any fool who ain’t Comanche enough to suit him. So, we’ve got about three weeks to get this stud broke to ride—or at least to lead home— before the Wolf and his warriors come back here lookin’ for scalps.”
“Well, then let’s get after it,” Jay Blue said. “What do you want me and Skeeter to do?”
“You ever bust a bronc?”
“Plenty.”
“Well, you ain’t bustin’ this one. You dang cowboys are always in a rush to get things done. We’ll do this the slow way. My way. We start by walkin’ him down in there. There’s three of us, so we can take turns and tire him out. He’ll learn that we don’t mean to hurt him, but that we don’t aim to let him hurt us, either. You boys sit here and watch what I do. If you don’t watch and learn, you’re gonna get hurt.”
“Yes, sir,” Jay Blue said.
Jubal climbed back into the corral with El Grullo and began teaching horse and horsemen alike.
Visions of a rumbling black cloud tormented him in the agony of what passed for sleep. Not just a gray cloud. Not just dark, like a cloud of the natural world. But
black
. Evil. It shot lightning that became arrows. When he woke, it was the thing he remembered first.
Compared to the frightful miseries of his dreams and visions, however, the world of humans seemed much better now than when he had drifted away. The feverish pain of his wound was gone. He heard chanting, and opened his eyes to find the pleasant drone of the magical noise coming from an old man. A pretty young woman knelt to his other side, washing him with a piece of shaggy buffalo hide that soaked up water. This, too, was pleasant.
The girl noticed that the Wolf’s eyes had opened, and she smiled. “Grandfather!” she said.
The wrinkled old conjurer ceased to sing, and looked down at the Wolf. The misery and infirmity of the wound seemed to have been drawn up into the old man, and he looked terribly exhausted. This made the Wolf feel deeply ashamed.
“You have cured me,” he said to the old man. “Now you can rest.” He fought through his weakness and the lingering soreness in his torso to rise and prop himself up on his elbows. “I am through lying around here like a little baby girl. I am ashamed of myself. Woman, is there food? I am very hungry.”
The girl beamed, but the old man only rose and turned to trudge away.
“Great shaman,” the Wolf said, “you will have many horses. And robes and lodge poles. Whatever you wish, I will pay it.”
The grizzled healer did not reply, or even turn around to look. He vanished into his nearby lodge.
The girl helped the Wolf sit up, and put a back rest behind him so he could lean against it in comfort. His stomach felt like a cavern full of hungry bats. She handed him a length of pemmican stuffed into a cleaned buffalo gut. He bit off a huge chunk and chewed it voraciously. It tasted of rich tallow, dried grapes, pecans, acorns, seeds, and jerked buffalo meat pounded thin. She handed him water with which to wash it all down.
It was strange. He was practically dying of starvation, yet the sight of this girl was more interesting to him than the food. A more beautiful face he could not imagine. Her cheeks were so large and full that she looked like a pretty little chipmunk who had been busy gathering a cache for the winter. Her mouth was straight and strong. Her black hair hung in a combed mane to her shoulders, and shone like her eyes, which danced with cleverness. A golden deerskin dress covered her tastefully, yet revealed the curves of her bosom and hips. Her arms emerged from the fringed and beaded sleeves, well-formed and muscular, yet feminine.
“Tabe Nanika,” she said, as if reading his mind.
So, this was her name. It meant “voice of the sunrise,” but he knew it referred to the song of the birds heard at dawn. He would think of her as Birdsong. His mouth was full of food, and he could not respond.
“I know you are called the Original Wolf,” she said. “Your cousin told me.”
He gulped some water. “Where is that cousin?” He tore off another bite of pemmican.
She turned to some other girls working nearby. “Find Crooked Nose!” she ordered in a good, strong voice.
“I will!” said one, leaping up to the task as the other girls laughed at her.
Birdsong smiled. “That one likes your cousin.”
The Wolf, feeling more and more original with each heartbeat, studied her as he bolted another bite of the much appreciated delicacy. “Your people are Kotsoteka?”
“No. We are Quahadi.”
“Ah, the fierce ones.”
“No more fierce than you, from the stories told by your cousin and the mothers you protected.”
“I have not been fierce enough. I will ask my spirit protectors for more courage.”
“Your cousin is telling everyone that you will lead a great raid with the next moon. He has already won warriors for your cause. Some have sent riders to other bands. You must heal quickly if you do not wish your cousin’s talk to make a fool of you.”
“My cousin has always been very cautious. He has not even begun to talk about the raid I will lead. And you must watch your own talk about how quickly I heal, or I will pick up a stick and chase you through this camp with it.”
Her pretty cheeks blushed and her mouth formed a true smile. It was plain that she liked his bold talk. “You will heal, fierce one.”
Crooked Nose came running up, holding on to a new bow he had been shaping. “Cousin!” he blurted. “Are you truly well?” The girl that had gone to fetch him came running up behind him.
“Better than well.” The Wolf was finishing the last of his pemmican, and gestured to Birdsong for more.
“No,” she said. “You must walk first. You need to visit the bushes.”
“I must eat, woman! I have spoken!”
“My grandfather has spoken! He healed you, and he is your elder! When you return from your walk, you will have more food.”
The Wolf scowled, but reached up for Crooked Nose’s help in rising to his feet. It hurt to move, but not as badly as he had expected. The old shaman had worked wonders with his medicine.
“This girl thinks that because she is pretty, she can speak to me with disrespect,” the Wolf grumbled.
“That is true,” Crooked Nose agreed. He glanced at the girl who had gone to fetch him. “But there are other pretty girls in this camp, so she should not act so proud. Come, Cousin, I will help you to the bushes.”
The Wolf shook off his cousin’s hand. “If I fall, pick me up. But do not help me any more than that. I am tired of being a disgrace to the True Humans. Very soon, I will be ready to fight.”
He stepped gingerly away from the place where he had sweated out all the evil, and looked over his shoulder to see those two pretty Quahadi girls standing there, smiling, watching him and his cousin walk away. “I always thought I would take a Penateka girl for my first wife,” he said. “But these Quahadi girls . . .”
“They are bad about being mouthy,” Crooked Nose observed. “We must make them good with Penateka seed.”
The Wolf smiled. “I like that idea. First, we will bring them scalps to see how well they dance. Then we will make them good with our seed.”
T
HEY CAME FROM
roving bands of Penateka and Quahadi, Kotsoteka and Yamparika. Some brought allies of Kiowa and Cheyenne. Even a few of the northern Noomah people had ridden all the way from the snowy ranges, for the news had spread far across the plains and mountains of a young Comanche leader and the promise of a raid on the Tejanos like the elders remembered.
Some were veteran warriors who preferred death in battle to life on a reservation. Some were youths who had yet to steal a horse, count a coup, or take a scalp. But all had heard of the bravery of one called the Original Wolf, who had vowed vengeance for the murders of a great chief and many of his followers.
The Wolf had spent long days on the mountain that looked over the confluence of the two rivers. There, he could watch for enemies, chant to the spirits, send his prayers up to the Shadow Land on the smoke from his pipe, and renew his strength with fresh meat and pemmican brought up to him from below by the shaman’s granddaughter, Birdsong. He could also see the new recruits ride into the camp between the rivers. Every day more arrived, in ones, twos, and threes. His wound was still sore, but he would be ready.
He knew it was time to speak in council, so he came down from the bluff and sent his cousin through the camp to spread the word. All the warriors who had come to fight filed into the biggest lodge in camp, entering by rank behind the Wolf, spiraling inward until the lodge was like a hollow tree full of bees. The lower hides of the tepee were rolled up so still others could gather around the sacred council lodge and listen outside.
Tobacco was stuffed into a pipe, prayers were sent up the smoke hole to the guardian spirits of the Noomah warriors. The drum ceased, and the Wolf stood. He paused for a long moment, feeling the excitement in the middle of this circle of brave souls. Finally, he spoke:
“While I was wounded, I fell into a sleep from which I could not wake, and I rose from the earth and drifted on the border of the Shadow Land. The spirits spoke to me, telling me what I must do. Those who wish to follow must do as I say, or the spirit powers guiding us on our raid will blow away in the wind like the leaves that are falling from the trees in this camp.
“I followed a peace chief to this country. You have heard about the big white man who started the attack on our party. You have heard about the return of the ghost arrows. Many of you know of a ghost who lives in a canyon not far from here. You must know that, in addition to our enemies, there is evil looking for us here, and you should not ride with me on this raid unless you ride with your own spirit guardians.”
The Wolf paused to look into the eyes of the warriors, for doubt, for cowardice, for suspicion. He saw none. These were the bravest of the brave. Each had sought his own medicine, chanted to his own spirit protectors, and prepared his own weapons. No man in this lodge intended to die with white hair.
“Our raid will strike like a swarm of wasps, then like a pack of wolves. The target is the rancho of the big white man—the coward who killed an unarmed flute player and started the massacre at a peaceful hunting camp. There, at that rancho, my spirit guides have told me that we must kill and scalp every man, for they have all murdered our warriors, and some have wounded our women and children.
“But . . . we have enough enemies, my brothers. Do not let greed for coups and scalps carry this raid any farther than our one target.” He paused to judge the frowns and grumbles he knew this warning would elicit. “Unless some of you want to sneak around and steal some horses in the night, yes?”
A hum of approval followed this remark, and the frowns turned to smiles.
“Now, listen to one more thing. Evil lives in a canyon to the south of this camp. Sometimes it comes out in the form of the most hideous cannibal ghost you have ever seen in your worst dreams. It has snakes for hair, embers for eyes, and pale flesh with veins of blue blood. The elders have told us about it for many seasons. Many of them have seen it. If this thing appears to us, the spirit powers of our raid have left us, and we must scatter to safe places and purify ourselves in sweat lodges.
“I believe this thing is the spirit of a dead warrior who turned evil. It shoots lightning bolts that turn into arrows, and those arrows have brought all the trouble upon us here. Some who look upon those arrows turn evil and take the dark trail—the soldier chief and the big Tejano. Others look upon those arrows and remain good. Like my cousin, Crooked Nose, and me.
“We cannot kill this thing, for it is already dead. But we must kill the men who have been sickened by its hatred—the big ranchero and his men. It is an old evil. It has been around since the Original Wolf walked like a two-legged. It is part of the battle that began long ago. Who knows when it will end?
“Keep your weapons pure and your hearts good, my brothers, and this evil cannot touch you. Strong hearts resist evil. Brave men receive their rewards in the Shadow Land. You have all been waiting for a proper fight. It comes with the next moon. I am the Original Wolf.” He placed his fist over his heart. “I have spoken.”
P
OLICARPO LOSOYA
slipped into the cook shack after his chores for the day were done, and gave the
cocinero
, Beto Canales, a whistle to get his attention, distracting the cook from the chicken carcass he was butchering.
“Hey, Beto.
Voy cazando para un gran vena’o.
”
“
¿Sí? ¿Donde?
”
Beto inquired.
But Poli only grinned and shook his head, wagging his finger at Beto. Everything was a competition among the men on the Broken Arrow, and Poli was not about to let on where he had spotted signs of the big whitetail buck he meant to hunt down this evening. “Mañana, we eat venison,” was all he would say.
He went to the corrals, chose a horse, and quickly saddled his mount. He slipped his favorite Winchester rifle into his saddle scabbard. Time was running short if he wanted to get a shot at that deer before dark. He had seen some buck rubs that suggested a real trophy deer would return to them.
Leaving the ranch, he rode up a trail that led to an overlook above the ranch. At the overlook, he glanced back and saw riders moving through the oaks at a long trot. A man wearing a bandito mask rode in front. This had to be the albino mustanger Poli had heard about. Behind him came a fiery gray that could only be El Grullo, with Jay Blue in the saddle! Next came Skeeter, and a woman that had to be the mustanger’s señora. Poli was anxious to get a look at that albino man, and maybe trade some mustanging stories with him. Of course, he wanted to see El Grullo
up close, too, and congratulate the boys for having saddle-trained the killer. But all that would have to wait until after his hunt.
