Comanche Dawn (57 page)

“And you, Raccoon-Eyes, cannot take the metal across the plains, because the Flower Men—your own people—will kill you.”

“This is my fear. But your people can take the metal for me,” Jean said. “It is dangerous, but your people do not fear danger. There is something else the Rower Men want. Horses. If your warriors take the horses and the sacred metal across the plains, and bring back the things the Metal Men need, you will keep a portion of the horses—let us say one in ten. It is a way to get horses without raiding the Metal Men or fighting the soldiers.”

Jean could see Horseback glancing about the lodge, judging the expressions of his fellow warriors.

“If my people take the shiny metal across the plains to the Flower Men for you, what will the Flower Men give in exchange for the metal? What will we bring back to you, Raccoon-Eyes?”

Jean admired the way Horseback rooted out details. “They have cloth the Spaniards need to make their clothes and to unravel so the Pueblo nations can make fine blankets from the fiber.”

“Do you risk forbidden trade only for cloth and blankets, Raccoon-Eyes?”

Jean smiled and bowed his head in acquiescence. “The Flower Men have the magic powder for the guns. They have iron and copper for making pots and weapons. They have better guns than the Metal Men. Also, they have much honey from the nations of the timber.”

“Will the Metal Men know of this trade?” Horseback asked.

“I am forbidden to trade with the Flower Men. The Metal Men will not know about this trade, but they will be glad to have the things you bring back from the Flower Men.”

“The rich chief in Santa Fe and the Black Robes and the soldiers will question where you get these good things,” Horseback said.

Jean smiled, impressed with the Comanche's understanding of power in the Spanish outposts. “A few pieces of the sacred yellow metal will silence their questions.”

“The great chiefs of the Metal Men and the Flower Men forbid this trade.” Horseback said. “Do you not fear them?”

“The great chiefs are far away, beyond water so wide that it takes two moons to cross. They do not understand how we must trade to survive.”

Horseback narrowed his eyes. “My friend, you speak like a man who serves no nation. You are neither Metal Man, nor Flower Man, nor Raccoon-Eyed Man.”

Jean smirked. “Perhaps I serve all those nations.”

“That is the same as serving none. He who lives everywhere, lives nowhere—like the buffalo, wandering.”

The truth in Horseback's words made Jean's heart sink. There had been a time, with Maria, when he thought he had become an adopted Spaniard, and it had felt good. Now Maria was many years dead, and he knew he was no nation's man. He was a rogue bull, searching aimlessly.

Still, a rogue bull was defiant, so Jean lifted his chin. “And, you, Horseback? Where is your country? The old
Noomah
land? Or here?”

Horseback angled his face upward and drew in a prideful breath. “My country is here, given to me by the spirits. I have seen this country in my great vision. It has mountains and timber, rivers and plains, grass and buffalo. It touches strange places in the south and east, still misty in my vision. Now, the
Na-vohnuh
hold this country. They are our most ancient of enemies. My path is as plain as a trail of blood in the snow. I must take this country from the
Na-vohnuh
to avenge my ancestors and feed my grandchildren's grandchildren. I will die here. The Great Creator, and all the spirits, and my own shadow-guide have chosen the way for me. I will need ponies to bring my vision out of the mist. Many ponies. Let us say, three in ten.”

Jean chuckled, bending he tattoos on his face. “So be it. For every seven ponies you take to the Flower Men, you will have three to keep in your camp. Will you speak about this in the council lodge?”

“Yes, my friend. But first, we will have a feast. I smell good things cooking. Let us fill our bellies.”

Jean rose with the rest of the men, his head spinning from standing so quickly. He felt the shoulders of warriors against his own, heard the good sound of the
Noomah
tongue, smelled the mingling of sweat and tobacco smoke. He was hungry. This was a good place to be right now. He smiled.

52

“It is called Quivira,”
Jean said. “This place has tormented the Metal Men for generations. Long ago, someone told the Metal Men that the Raccoon-Eyed People in Quivira held much of the shiny yellow metal. The Metal Men have come here many times, never finding any sacred metal. Still, some of them believe Quivira to be a city of gold. This is the way the metal makes them think crazy.”

They straddled good ponies on the broad bank of the river, looking down on the ancient plains village of the Raccoon-Eyed People. They were fifteen sleeps from the camp of Horseback's people on the River of Arrowheads. On the pole-drags lashed to three of the ponies were a number of hides, and Governor Del Bosque's small cache of gold, all tightly bound in rawhide to protect from the weather. A modest trading expedition, Jean had to admit, but one that would hopefully lead to larger caravans in the future.

Horseback's Comanche council had agreed to try this trade expedition to the east, eight warriors volunteering to make the trip. Among them were all the searchers from the first Comanche expedition five years ago; two new horsemen from a distant Snake band called the Grasshopper Eaters; Speaks Twice; and Horseback's brother-in-law, Trotter.

Jean looked at Horseback and had to chuckle, for the young rider was sitting backward on his light pad saddle, peering studiously out at Quivira over the rump of his horse, the whole aspect of which struck Jean as comical. This trip had provided Jean's first experience with the warrior society of the Foolish Ones. Both Horseback and Echo-of-the-Wolf had kept the entire band entertained and alert for pranks for fifteen days.

In spite of the foolishness of riding his horse backward and turning his mount around to look over Quivira, Jean could see that Horseback was carefully studying what must have been a strange sight to him—a village of Raccoon-Eyed People.

In a way, Jean was coming home. The Raccoon-Eyed People had taken him in from the wilderness after the murder of La Salle. He would never forget their kindness. It stirred him to look out over the fields of squash, beans, corn, and pumpkins—the women now running from these fields to the village, having seen the strange party on the rise. The grass-thatched lodges looked like the firm breasts of young women from this distance. He smiled when he saw the raised platforms built to house the young girls. He remembered Starlight, who had taught him his first lessons of lovemaking many winters ago in a Raccoon-Eyed village far to the south.

The people of that village had brought Jean to Quivira to attend a trade fair when he was still just seventeen years old. This was the first time he had been back since, and he felt years of fatigue overwhelm him as he looked down on the fields and huts. The village seemed smaller now, and Jean instinctively felt the sorrow of mothers who had lost little ones to the diseases of white men, the fear of wives who had lost husbands, the bewilderment of babies who had lost mothers. He wondered if there was anyone alive who would still remember the tattooed white boy called Stranger.

“Vámanos,”
he said, trying to keep Horseback's ear tuned toward learning Spanish.

As he descended the steep brink of the stream bank, he saw to his amusement that Horseback was actually backing his pony down the bank, still sitting backward on the mount. Never had he seen a pony willing to back blindly down such a steep decline, yet Jean noticed slack in Horseback's reins, and had to wonder how the rider signaled the pony to back up. Horseback seemed to lend his very heart and will to the pony, who backpedaled as quickly as the other mounts rode forward.

All the while, Horseback said, in Spanish, “Forward, forward, forward!”

With a yelp, the rider finally wheeled his pony around to face Quivira, at the same time spinning himself on the pad saddle so effortlessly that he never lost sight of the Raccoon-Eyed village. Now he rode like the other riders, yet insisted on shouting, “Back!” to his horse in Spanish. “Back up! Go back!”

“Stay behind me,” Jean ordered, and he nudged his mount to a lope to ride ahead of the others. Raccoon-Eyed warriors were running toward the fields, their weapons ready. Jean raised a hand in a sign of friendship as he approached. When he rode near enough for his tattoos to be seen, the men of Quivira lowered their weapons and began to sing a song of greeting to him.

Jean smiled, enjoying the familiar sound of the Raccoon-Eyed tongue. Now there would be a feast, he knew, and much storytelling and celebration. He hoped to forge a trust between the Quivirans and the rising Comanche Nation. Any trouble between the two would mean the end of his scheme to use the Comanches in establishing a black-market trade with the French across the plains.

He smirked at his own audacity. Imagine, linking the Spanish and French frontiers through an illegal trade carried out by these upstart Comanches, about whom he knew virtually nothing. If it worked, he would amass as much wealth as anyone in the Kingdom of New Mexico. If it failed, he would likely end up dead or in Spanish chains.

As he led his men among the singing Quivirans, Jean saw a strange man step from one of the grass-thatched lodges. A white man, with a red stocking cap only half covering a head that seemed completely bald. The man had a dirty red sash belted around his solid, mulelike girth. The worn hilt of a cutlass protruded from a scabbard slung on a leather strap that crossed his ample chest. Riding closer, Jean saw a glint he did not like in the man's eyes, though his eyes were hard to see, since they squinted as if the sun hurt them.

A pang of dread dropped like a chunk of snow into Jean's stomach, for he recognized this man. Henri Casaubon, the accomplice of Minime Duhaut in the murder of La Salle. Henri Casaubon, leader of Convulsionaries and Malcontents. The moment he recognized Casaubon, Jean remembered that horrible and confusing night when he, as a mere lad, saw the ugly Convulsionary humping the comely Madeleine like an animal in a Fort St. Louis storehouse on the cannibal coast of
Tejas.

A tall warrior followed Casaubon from the lodge, and Jean immediately recognized the markings and garb of the Osage nation. The warrior held an iron battle-ax festooned with beads and feathers. Jean knew that most Osage people were tall, but this one was almost equal to two Comanches. It was strange to see him here, for Osage and Raccoon-Eyed People hated each other. The Osage stood directly behind Casaubon at all times, on guard. His head was shaved in typical style, except for a ridge of hair left standing along his crown, like the roached mane of a horse. Behind, the hair grew long enough to form two braids that fell over his shoulder.

Henri Casaubon smiled and straightened his stocking cap as Jean dismounted. Two teeth were missing from the top row. “Hello,
mon ami,
” he said.

Jean had heard rumors of Casaubon over the years since the murder of La Salle. It was said that Casaubon had become a French
courier de bois
who had courted much trade among the nations, mostly in slaves for the French outposts and the sugar plantations on the islands of the Caribbean. He was known as Bald Man among the nations. His trade was illegal, for the market of the independent
couriers de bois
had been outlawed for decades, under penalty of death. France awarded monopolies only to recognized traders, but Casaubon had survived by keeping his operations constantly on the move up and down the plains. His presence now in Quivira did not bode well for Jean's trade with French merchants in the east.

Jean did not answer Casaubon's greeting, except to raise his chin a little. He turned to Speaks Twice, and in the
Tiwa
tongue he knew Casaubon would not understand, said, “Tell the Comanches to stay away from the Bald Man and the tall Osage guard.”

As the warriors of the trade expedition removed the pole-drags from the ponies and turned their mounts out to graze, a bank of ashen clouds began to form in the west. By the time the feasting had begun, a cool wind was whipping the dried grass on the lodges, bearing the sweet scent of rain.

“Behold,” said Night Hunter, the head elder in Quivira, “our friends bring us rain for our gardens. The sun has passed behind a robe of clouds as dark as charcoal.”

“Hah,”
Horseback replied, waiting for the translations to go through Raccoon-Eyes, “the Thunderbird follows us to bring the gift of rain.”

Rain began to fall during the feast, and the guests had to crowd into Night Hunter's lodge—the largest in the village. Inside, robes and blankets hung to partition off the beds of various family members and provide scant privacy. But these hanging robes were tied aside now to open the lodge for the gathering of visitors. The grass house had an open doorway facing east. When rain began to splatter in through this opening, Night Hunter got up and placed over the opening a cover made of a willow frame thatched with bundles of grass.

Jean sat on a thick, soft buffalo robe rolled under him to make a comfortable couch. He leaned against one of the heavy upright posts that supported the roof framing. He ate a stew of meat and squash and many other good things from a clay crock of French design.

Thunder rolled overhead during the feast, and the Comanches enjoyed many cooked vegetables some of them had never before tasted. Rain was still rattling the dried grass roof, dripping through here and there, as the conversation began. Pipes were filled and lighted, passed among the Comanches, Jean, Speaks Twice, Night Hunter, and Henri Casaubon. The tall Osage guard had gone to Casaubon's lodge when the storm started, prompting Jean to reason that Casaubon must have some store of trade goods in his lodge whose value made them worthy of guarding.