Dead Man's Walk (22 page)

He had always supposed he had as much guts as the next man; but his nerves had been somewhat affected by the bloody events of the first march, and were still not under perfect control. He felt sure, though, that he could match Woodrow Call ability for ability, and beat him at most contests. He could see farther, for one thing, though being in the middle of a buffalo herd didn't give him much opportunity to test his vision. All he could see was the brown animals all around him. None of them seemed too interested in him or his horse, and he soon found that he could use the Bes-Das technique as well as Bigfoot or the Pawnee scout. Once he let his horse step too close to the horns of a young bull, but the horse turned just in time. In ten minutes he was almost across the herd--Bes-Das and Bigfoot were there waiting. He didn't know where Woodrow Call was--slipping through the buffalo required all his attention. He was only twenty yards from being free of the herd when suddenly buffalo all around him began to swerve and jump. Gus's horse jumped too, almost unseating him. All the buffalo on the far side of the herd were lowering their heads and acting as if they wanted to butt. Gus was thrown over the saddle horn, onto the horse's neck, but just managed to hang on and regain his seat. He saw Bes-Das and Bigfoot laughing and felt rather annoyed --what was so funny about his nearly getting thrown and trampled?
He spurred through the last few animals and turned to see what had caused the commotion--all he could see was a large badger, snapping at a buffalo cow. The badger was so angry he had foam on his mouth--the buffalo were giving ground, too. Woodrow Call's horse was pitching with him, agitated by the snorting buffalo cow that was faced off with the badger. Woodrow hung on and made it through.
"Why would anything as big as a buffalo shy at a badger?" Gus asked, when he rode up to Bigfoot. "A buffalo could kick a badger halfway to China." "That badger bluffed 'em," Bigfoot said.
"He's so mad he's got 'em convinced he's as big as they are, and twice as mean." "I wonder if they're mad?" Call said, looking at the Comanches, who sat without moving on the hill above them.
"If they are we'd be easy pickings," Bigfoot said. "We'd never get back through them buffalo quick enough to get away, and the troop couldn't get through quick enough to save us, either." Call looked up at the Indians and back across the valley, at the body of the expedition.
He wished Bigfoot had not made the last comment.
The buffalo herd they had just slipped through was like a moving wall, separating them from the safety of the troop. All the Comanches would have to do would be to trot down the hill and kill them with lances or arrows. The thought made him feel wavy, and without strength.
Neither Bigfoot nor Bes-Das seemed concerned, though. They walked their horses slowly toward the hill, Bes-Das holding up the rifle with the white sheet on it. Call and Gus fell in behind.
"What if they don't pay no attention to the sheet?" Call asked. He wanted to know what the procedure would be, if they had to fight.
"If they come for us put as many bullets into the big one as you can," Bigfoot said. "Always kill the biggest bull first--then kill the littlest." "Why the littlest?" Gus asked.
"Because the littlest is apt to be the meanest, like the badger," Bigfoot said. "That one standing off to the right is Kicking Wolf--he's the littlest and the meanest. You don't want to let your horse graze off nowhere, with Kicking Wolf around. He's so slick he can steal a horse with a man sitting on it." "He's stumpy, ain't he?" Gus said.
"Kicking Wolf always rides to the outside," Bigfoot said. "Buffalo Hump is the hammer, but Kicking Wolf is the nail. He don't like to be in a crowd. He's the best shot with a rifle in the whole Comanche nation. If they go out and they've only got one rifle between them, they give it to him. Buffalo Hump's old-fashioned. He still prefers the bow." With the Pawnee scout, Bes-Das, slightly in the lead, the party moved slowly up the hill toward the waiting Indians. Call glanced at the short, stumpy Indian on the right edge of the group and saw that he was the only Indian armed with a rifle. All the rest carried bows or lances.
When they were halfway up the hill Buffalo Hump touched his mount with his heels and came down to meet them. When he was still some fifty yards away Call looked at Gus, to see if he was firm. To his surprise Gus looked nonchalant, as if he were merely riding out for a little sport with his pals.
"Here he comes, I hope he's friendly," Gus said. "I never expected to have to go and palaver with him, not after he stuck me with that lance." "Shut up--Bes-Das will do the palavering," Bigfoot instructed. "You young boys keep your damn traps shut. It don't take much to rub a Comanche the wrong way." As Buffalo Hump approached, holding his spotted pony to a slow walk, Call felt the air change. The Comanche's body shone with grease; a necklace made of claws hung on his bare chest. Call looked at Gus, to see if he felt the change, and Gus nodded. They had entered the air of the wild men--even the smell of the Indian horses was different.
Bes-Das stopped, waiting. Buffalo Hump came on until the nose of his spotted pony was only a few feet from the nose of the Pawnee's black mare. Then Buffalo Hump lifted his lance and pointed first at Gus, and then at Call. Though he sat erect on his horse, the great hump was visible, rising from between his shoulders behind his neck. When he spoke his voice was so wild and angry that it was all Call could do to keep from grabbing his gun. Call met the man's eyes for a moment--the Comanche's eyes were like stone. Buffalo Hump lowered his lance, glanced at Bigfoot dismissively for a second, and then waited for Bes-Das to speak.
Bigfoot seemed not to interest him. Bigfoot returned the favor by looking pointedly up the hill, at Kicking Wolf.
Bes-Das spoke briefly, in Comanche.
Buffalo Hump raised his arm and the other Comanches trotted down the hill, to join him.
He turned and spoke to his warriors for several minutes. Kicking Wolf grunted something and rode away, back to his position at the side.
"I hope he ain't getting ready to shoot," Gus said.
"I told you to keep your goddamn mouth shut," Bigfoot said. "We'll get out of this with our hair if you'll just keep quiet." Bes-Das listened to Buffalo Hump, who made a long speech in his thick, angry voice. Call decided then that he would do what he could to learn the Comanche language. It seemed foolish to parley with wild red men if you did not know what was being said in the discussion. He could be talking of ways to kill them, for all he knew.
When Buffalo Hump finished, Bes-Das said a few words and immediately turned his horse and began to walk him back toward the buffalo herd.
Bigfoot waited a moment, as if absent-mindedly, and then turned his horse, too.
Call and Gus fell in behind. Call felt so much danger in the air that it took all his self-control not to look back. A lance like the one that had pierced Gus's hip could be singing toward them. He glanced at Gus and saw that his friend seemed perfectly firm--something had happened to toughen his attitude since they left the camp and slipped through the buffalo herd.
The recrossing of the herd went quickly--they had learned the edging technique on the first crossing and were soon almost through. Once the buffalo herd was between them and the Indians, Call felt free to look back. The air had changed again--they were in the air of safety, not the air where the quick death was.
"I guess you grew your backbone again," Call said, noting that Gus looked so cheerful that he was almost whistling.
"Yes, I ain't scared of him now," Gus said. "Clara wouldn't want no coward.
I kept my mind on her. We'll be married once we get back to Austin." Indeed, he felt cheered by the encounter. He had looked Buffalo Hump in the eye and lived--it made him feel lucky again. He was curious, though, about one aspect of the parley.
"I wonder why he pointed that lance at us, when he first rode up?" Gus asked.
Bes-Das turned briefly, and laughed his broken-toothed laugh.
"He said you both belong to him," he told them.
"He says he will take you when he is ready--but not today. He is coming to eat supper with the Colonel, and he will bring his wives." "Why do we belong to him and not you and Bigfoot?" Gus asked.
"You cheated his lance," Bes-Das told him.
"He says his lance is hungry for your liver." "It can just stay hungry," Gus said boldly, though the threat did make his stomach feel wavy for a moment.
"Why me, then?" Call asked. "I didn't cheat his damn lance." Bes-Das laughed again.
"No, with you it's different," he said, smiling at Call.
"Why would it be different?" Call asked, wishing he could have understood the Indian's talk.
"Different because you killed his son," the Pawnee said.
Call was more sobered than Gus by the news Bes-Das had delivered. He had killed the war chief's son. Buffalo Hump might forget that he had missed Gus with his lance, but he would not forget the loss of a son. As long as the humpbacked Comanche was alive, Call knew he would have an enemy. Anytime he traveled in Comanche country, his life would depend on keeping alert.
He was silent as they rode back to camp, thinking of all the years of vigilance ahead.
Gus McCrae, though, was in high spirits. Now that he had survived, he was glad he had gone to the parley. Not only had he threaded his way through the great buffalo herd, he had faced the Comanche killer at close range and ridden away unharmed. Now he was safely back with the big troop. Buffalo Hump could threaten all he wanted to--his lance would have to go hungry.
Once Clara Forsythe heard what he had done she would know she had kissed a brave man, a Ranger on whom her affections would not be wasted.
It wouldn't be long before the news reached her, either --several of the merchants and most of the whores would soon be going back. In a town as small as Austin the news that he had been selected for a dangerous mission would soon reach the young lady in the general store.
There was a crowd around Caleb Cobb when they rode up to report. The big Irish dog was back--it sat panting at Caleb's feet, its long tongue hanging out. John Kirker was there, sitting on a stump, his big scalping knife at his belt. Shadrach stood to one side, looking disgruntled. He had not liked the order forbidding him to shoot buffalo until they were across the Brazos. When he looked at Caleb Cobb, he glowered his displeasure.
Matilda Roberts stood with him. Lately, the old mountain man and the large whore seemed to have formed an attachment. Often, when Shadrach was out scouting, the two would be seen riding together. At night they sometimes sat together, around a little campfire of their own. No one had heard them exchange a word, and yet they were together, united in their silence. Some of the younger men had become afraid to approach Matilda--they didn't want to risk stirring the old mountain man's wrath. He was said to be terrible in his angers, though no one there could actually remember an occasion when Shadrach had lost his temper.
"Well, are we to have guests for supper?" Caleb Cobb asked. "Does the chief prefer to eat with a fork or with a scalping knife?" "He will come in one hour," Bes-Das said.
"He wants to eat quick. He will leave the camp at sundown. He will bring three wives with him but no braves." "Well, that's rare," Caleb said. "Does he have any other requests, this chief?" "Yes," Bes-Das said. "He wants you to give him a rifle." Caleb chuckled. "A rifle to kill us with," he said. "I sure hope he likes the cooking, when he tastes it--if he don't find it tasty he might scalp Sam." Black Sam had become Caleb Cobb's personal cook. The Colonel was so partial to rabbit that Sam had stuffed a cage of fat rabbits into one of the supply wagons. The Colonel didn't like large game--Sam trapped quail for him, and kept him fed with small, succulent bunnies.
"Well, if he's coming so soon, the chef will have to hurry," Caleb said. "Falconer, you like to shoot. Lope down and kill a couple of buffalo calves. Take the liver and sweetmeats and leave the rest. Call and McCrae will escort you--their horses are already used to the bufs." Falconer started for the wagon, to get his fine gun, but the Colonel stopped him with an impatient wave.
"You don't need that damn English gun just to shoot two calves," he said. "Shoot 'em with your pistol, or let Corporal Call do it." Call was disconcerted, as they rode down to the herd, to see John Kirker following, only a few yards to the rear. Call rode on for a bit and then decided he couldn't tolerate the man's presence. He nodded at Gus, and the two of them turned to face the scalp hunter.
"You weren't told to come," Call informed Kirker. "I'd prefer it if you'd go back." "I don't work for no army and I won't be told what to do by no one," Kirker said.
"Caleb Cobb can pretend he's a colonel if he wants to. He don't tell me what to do and neither do you, you damn pups." "You weren't told to come," Call repeated.
He was trying to be calm, though he felt his anger rising.
"There's Indians around buffalo," Kirker said. "They crawl in with them and shoot from under their bellies. I got business to tend to--I don't care if that murdering humpback is coming to eat. Get out of my way." "Tell him, Captain," Call said, turning to Falconer, but Falconer ignored the request.
"Last time you rode with us you scalped some Mexicans," Gus remarked.
Kirker brought the rifle up and looked at them coolly, his thin lip twisted in a kind of sneer.
"I despise young fools," he said. "If you don't like my trade have at me and do it now. I might get a scalp before sundown if I'm active." Kirker spoke with the same insolence with which he had confronted Bigfoot and Shadrach, back on the Rio Grande.
Gus found the man's insolence intolerable.
To Call's surprise, he yanked one of the big pistols out of his belt and whacked Kirker right across the forehead with it. The lick made a dull sound--a mule kicking a post made such a sound.
Kirker was knocked backward, off his horse.
He lay still for a moment, curled on the ground, but his eyes were open.
Call leapt down and took Kirker's pistol, as the man struggled to his feet.
Kirker reached for his big knife, but before he could pull it Call clubbed his arm with his musket--then he clubbed him twice more.
"Whoa, Woodrow," Gus said, alarmed by the look in Call's eye and the savage force of his clubbing. He himself had been angry enough to knock Kirker off his horse with a pistol, but the one hard lick satisfied him. The man's forehead was split open--he was streaming blood. It was enough, at least, to teach him respect. But Woodrow Call had no interest in respect. He was swinging to kill.