From Hide and Horn (A Floating Outfit Book Number 5) (11 page)

Having wanted mounts which they
could trust and rely upon under any conditions, Dusty had collected
his big paint stallion from the remuda while the Kid whistled up
his magnificent white. From his war-bag in the bed-wagon, the Kid
had produced a long, heavily fringed buckskin pouch decorated with
medicine symbols. With that on his rifle, it told all who knew
the
Pehnane
that he belonged to the Dog Soldier lodge. So any insult or
injury inflicted upon him would bring reprisals from the rest of
that savagely-efficient fighting brotherhood.

With a good meal inside them and
a reserve of pemmican in case of emergency, the two
amigos
wasted no time in
heading across the range. Two miles beyond the herd, the Kid
brought his horse to a halt as he wished to take certain added
precautions before visiting the Comanche camp.

In addition to gathering the
medicine boot from his gear, the Kid had donned a pair of
Pehnane
moccasins. Clearly
he did not intend relying on such a flimsy disguise. Dismounting,
he handed Dusty the buckskin-encased Winchester, removed his
gunbelt and hung it across the white’s saddle. Then he stripped off
his hat, shirt, bandana and levis. That left him clad only in the
moccasins and a breechclout of traditional
Nemenuh
blue. Formed of a length of cloth drawn up
between the legs and passed under a belt at front and rear, with
loose-hanging flaps trailing almost to knee level, the garment
served him instead of conventional white man’s underclothing and
allowed a rapid transition to an Indian warrior when
necessary.

Stripped of his cowhand regalia, the Kid
looked almost completely Indian. Nor did the gunbelt lessen the
likeness after he buckled it on. Many a brave-heart warrior wore
such a rig, looted in battle. Satisfied with his appearance, he
made a bundle of his clothes and fastened them to the saddle’s
cantle. Catching the rifle Dusty tossed to him, he vaulted astride
the white’s seventeen-hand high back.

‘
Let’s go,’ the Kid
suggested. ‘This way, happen any of
’em see us, they’ll be more likely to
talk first.’

Holding their horses to a fast,
mile-devouring trot, they rode to the west. Night came, but the Kid
had seen enough of the suspicious smoke to have fixed its position
firmly. Despite the darkness, he led the way in as near a direct
line as possible. After about three hours’
riding, he signaled Dusty to
stop.

‘
It’s
not far ahead now, so you’d best stay put until I’ve been in and
let ’em know how things stand.’

‘
Go to it,’ Dusty replied.
‘Only if they’re all
tuivitsi,
you come back here
pronto.’

‘
You can count on it,’ the Kid assured
him.

‘
What do you want me to do?’

‘
Wait here. I’ll move in
on foot. Watch ole
Thunder and come up with him when he starts
moving. He’ll soon enough let you know if there’s anybody sneaking
around. Should there be, try to settle ’em without too much
noise.’

‘
Is it all right if I
whomp
’em on the head with my carbine?’ Dusty inquired, sliding
the Winchester from its saddleboot.

‘’
S
long’s you do it
polite and thank ’em for letting you,’ replied the Kid.

With that the dark youngster dropped from his
horse’s back. He landed and disappeared into the blackness with the
minimum of sound. Cradling the carbine on his left arm, Dusty
remained astride the big paint. At his side the white stallion
stood like a statue, only its raised head, pricked ears and
constantly moving nostrils testifying to its alertness as it sought
for any warning scent or sound.

Advancing on noiseless feet, the Kid looked
no less wild and vigilant than his horse. He came across no guards,
nor expected to find any despite the increasing evidence that
reached his ears of the Indians’ presence in the vicinity. Almost
half a mile from where he had left Dusty, he received his first
sight of their quarry. Reaching the lip of a draw, he looked down
its gentle slope at the fire which had sent up the smoke that
brought him from the herd.

A touch of relief crept over the
Kid at what he saw, along with a feeling of
satisfaction at having his judgment
verified. There were only men around the fire on the bottom of the
draw. Not more than thirty of them, stocky, medium-sized and
wearing clothes made from buckskin, elk hide, but not antelope.
Naturally the bulk of the party consisted of
tuivitsi,
young, comparatively
inexperienced warriors. Yet the Kid could see sufficient
tehnap
and a war-bonnet
chief present to
ensure that his medicine pouch would be respected and
himself allowed to speak unmolested. They were a well-armed band,
if a touch low on firearms and with no repeating rifles. By their
dress, they came from the
Yamparikuh
band, not the
Kwe-harehnuh.

Continuing just as quietly down the slope,
the Kid halted while still in the darkness. So far none of the
party gave any sign of being aware of his presence, but he wanted
to announce himself before appearing.

‘
Greetings, men of
the
Yamparikuh,’
the Kid called, speaking the
Pehnane
dialect perfectly. ‘I come in peace to
your fire.’

At the first words, several of
the
tuivitsi
sprang to their feet and reached for weapons. None of
the
tehnap
moved and the chief showed no sign of agitation, accepting
that only a member of the
Nemenuh
could come so close undetected.

‘
You may come,’ the chief
replied.

Given permission, the Kid walked
into the fire’s light. He heard several startled comments as the
men saw his tall, slim, un-Comanche figure coming out of the night.
However the
Nemenuh
had adopted enough captive children into the tribe, turning
the boys into warriors every bit of ‘The People’ as if they had
been Comanche-born, for the Yap-Eaters to accept his
bona-fides.
And that
was
a
Dog Soldier’s
medicine pouch covering the visitor’s rifle. Halting before the
chief, the Kid raised his right hand in the peace
greeting.

‘
I am one
called
Pinedapoi,’
the chief introduced. ‘Are you
Nemenuh?’

‘
My grandfather is Long
Walker of the
Pehnane,’
the Kid answered. ‘I am one called
Cuchilo.’

‘
You
speak an honored name. Long Walker is a respected chief of our
people. And I have heard of
Cuchilo.’

‘
The fame of
Pinedapoi
has reached my
ears,’ the Kid countered politely.

‘
It is said you are a
white man now,’ a leathery
tehnap
put in.

‘
I
have friends among
the white men and live in their lodges,’ the Kid admitted. ‘But I
am still
Nemenuh.’
He paused to see if there would be a challenge to his
statement. None came and he went on, ‘My blood-brother waits in the
darkness, wishing to speak with the chief and braves of the
Yamparikuh.
He is a name-warrior
among his people. His name is Magic
Hands.’

‘
The man who broke the medicine of the Devil Gun?’
asked
Pinedapoi.

‘
He is
the one,’ confirmed the Kid.

During the War, a pair of fanatical supporters of the Union
had obtained an Agar Coffee Mill gun and hoped to use its
rapid-fire qualities to lead the Indians in Texas on the warpath.
Dusty had learned of the plot, attended the council at which the
gun was to be displayed, killed the fanatics and prevented the
full-scale uprising they had planned
.
^xvii

‘
He may come,’
Pinedapoi
declared, for such a
fighter as ‘Magic Hands’ would be welcome even though a white man
and nominally an enemy, and without the added advantage of being
blood-brother to a member of the
Penhane
Dog Soldiers.

The Kid pursed
his lips and gave a shrill whistle. In the darkness, Dusty saw the
white stallion toss its head and start to walk forward for no
reason apparent to him. Following the horse, he booted his carbine.
Riding towards the Yap-Eaters’ camp, Dusty felt a touch uneasy.
Cold black eyes in impassive, slightly Mongoloid faces studied him
from head to toe. At a signal from the Kid, the stallion halted on
the fringe of the firelight. Taking his cue from Thunder, Dusty
stopped his paint, dropped from the saddle and let the reins dangle
free. With his horse ground-hitched, he walked to where the Kid and
the chief waited.

‘
Why are you here, Magic Hands?’
Pinedapoi
asked in
Spanish after the formalities had ended.

‘
I am with
Chaqueta-Tigre
,’ Dusty explained in
the same language. ‘We are taking a herd of cattle to the Army’s
forts beyond the Staked Plains.’

‘
So that
the soldiers may eat well and be strong to fight against the
Comanche?’ suggested the chief. ‘Or to make your home on the Indian
lands?’

‘
Neither. To feed the Indians who live at peace on the
reservations.’

Before Dusty could elaborate further, a
tuivitsi
rose and pointed to the
south. All the other young braves came to their feet, talking and
showing excitement. The older warriors scowled their disapproval at
such behavior before strangers and retained their impassive
postures.

‘
We’ve
got callers, Dusty,’ the Kid said quietly. ‘A wagon and two-three
riders. Could be we’ve picked a mighty poor time to come
calling.’

‘
Could be,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Only it’s too late to pull
out now.’ In a short time the newcomers appeared and Dusty found
that the Kid had guessed correctly about the composition of the
party. Three riders flanked a small wagon and two men sat on its
box. They were Mexicans, evil-faced and looking out-of-place in the
tarnished finery of their
charro
clothing. All carried
revolvers and knives at their belts, while one of the riders nursed
a Spencer carbine on his knees.

‘
Damn the luck!’ grunted the Kid. ‘It’s Hugo Salverinas
and his bunch. They’re
Comancheros.
That’s Salverinas on the
wagon. The driver’s Andres. The short cuss riding on the right’s
Carlos, the one with the Spencer’s called Leon and the other’s
Cristobal. If the Devil put worse on this earth, I’ve sure never
met ’em.’

Which, considering some of the people met by the Kid during
his short but hectic life, sounded very damning for the new
arrivals.
Comancheros
were Mexican
bandidos
who combined trading with the
Nemenuh
and raiding on their own
account. Merciless killers, they had been all but quelled by the
Texas Rangers before the War and returned due to the inefficient
policing offered by the corrupt Davis Administration currently
controlling the State.

Dusty could not see a bunch of
Comancheros
taking kindly to finding
two Texans in the Comanche camp. Nor could the Kid, so he moved
slowly from his companion’s side and squatted on his heels by the
fire. The wagon came to a halt and Salverinas directed a cold glare
in Dusty’s direction. Short, heavy-built, cruel-featured, the man
carried himself with the air of one who knew he was on safe
ground.

‘
Who is this?’ Salverinas demanded, pointing at the
small Texan but apparently taking the Kid for one of
the
Yamparikuh.

‘
He is a friend,’
Pinedapoi
answered, sounding just a
touch annoyed at the tone of the
Comancheros
’ leader.

‘
Why is
he here?’ Salverinas went on without leaving the wagon’s
box.

‘
Why are
you
here?’ countered the chief.

‘
We met Apache Scalp and four braves,’ Salverinas
explained in a milder voice and his men swung from their horses.
‘They told us where you are camped and we came to bring
you
news. Not far from here is a large herd of cattle. If you
take them for us, we have guns, powder and lead for
trading.’

‘
What do you say to this,
Magic Hands?’
Pinedapoi
asked, the conversation having taken place in
Spanish.

‘
He is sending many of
your braves to the Land Of Good Hunting, chief,’ Dusty replied. ‘We
want no trouble with your people. And you have too few braves to
attack
Chaqueta-Tigre’s
herd with any hope of winning.’