Sidewinder (6 page)

No Comanche would think of going upon a war path without celebrating the occasion with a dance and this itself called for a special ceremony, After receiving his instructions from Fire Dancer, Sidewinder made a start.

Normally the organizer of a war party called in his friends, or other name-warriors, to discuss the proposed raid; but Sidewinder had such a reputation among the
Waw’ai
that he felt he could dispense with formalities. Nor did time permit an extended period of preparation, with racks of lances supporting shields gathering medicine strength from the sun before the organizer’s tipi and women going about to induce recruitment by persuading men to join the party. The latter did not prove necessary as no man in that village dare refuse the Death Bringer’s wishes.

The traditional parade of warriors could not be overlooked. About sundown Sidewinder led his party in single file and paraded four times through the village. Each man wore his medicine paint and war clothes, carrying his arms to show his readiness to make war, Among the party, three men each carried a
naivi
, maiden, dressed in male’s clothing on their horses, seated behind them. This signified that the man in question had performed the honoured feat of carrying a wounded or unhorsed companion out of a fight, or collected a dead brave to prevent the body falling into enemy hands and bring bad luck down on the war party.

When night came, the entire population of the village gathered about the large fire in the centre of the tipi circle. Forming a rough circle, they left an opening in their ranks facing the distant Wide Valley as required by tradition. Not all the braves would be going, it being necessary to leave a small force to guard the village. Only those actually riding with Sidewinder could dance and each had a woman to partner him.

Accompanied by drums and the singing of those who did not dance, warriors and their partners performed the long-established steps of the ceremony. At intervals, various members of the party halted the dancing to recount their best coup, telling it to rouse the spirits of the younger members and show what kind of company could be expected in the dangerous times ahead. Now and then a warrior and
naivi
slipped off into the darkness; no maiden would think of refusing to accompany a man who could bring back much loot, and would be grateful for services rendered, or might die in battle and so deserved comfort.

Through the night, warriors danced, or sat singing. They sang war chants, but also raised their voices in love songs. Then an expectant silence fell over the crowd and Sidewinder rose from his place of honour. The time had come for the party’s war leader to address them.

Standing in the circle’s centre, his face made even more evil by the flickering glow of the fire’s flames, Sidewinder warned of the coming of the white soldiers. He told how his party must go out to battle and destroy the hated intruders and then promised that, on achieving victory, they would make a raid to bring in much loot and provide unlimited opportunities to count coup. With skilled oratory, he called upon his companions to display their usual courage, explaining that a resounding victory would make them the supreme
Nemenuh
tribe. It would also bring flocking to them all the warriors of the other bands who wanted no such foolishness as peace with the white invaders of Comancheria. At the head of an ever-growing army, the
Waw’ai
under Sidewinder would sweep the hated white man to wherever they came from and bring back the good old days once more.

‘We must defeat the lance-carriers first though,’ he warned his men. ‘But I have medicine for that.’

‘The Death Bringer’s medicine?’ asked one of the braves,

‘My medicine,’ agreed Fire Dancer. ‘I have seen that you will defeat the white lance carriers, then sweep across the prairie to greater victories. For who will dare stand in the way of brave-hearts who have defeated the carriers of lances?’

Knowing in what respect they themselves held warriors brave enough to carry a lance into battle, none of the listening crowd could doubt that Fire Dancer’s predictions would bring about the desired result. Even those who did not relish tangling with lance-carriers, even white ones, began to take faith when they heard that the full, malignant medicine
puha
of the Death Bringer backed them.

Fortunately none of the party thought to ask about the men sent out to kill and so far not returned, or knew of the various failures, or they might have felt less faith in their witch Woman’s powers.

CHAPTER SIX

‘IT’S a sight to see,’ commented Dusty Fog as, accompanied by his friends, he rode his seventeen hand paint stallion — the one which crippled Ole Devil — on the final stage of the journey to Fort Sorrel.

‘I never afore saw so many Comanche together,’ agreed Mark Counter, studying the clusters of tipis which formed a half-circle beyond the log-walled perimeter of the Fort. Those Yankee soldiers’ll be sweating all ways.’

‘What’d you expect?’ demanded the Kids ‘Us
Nemenuh
aren’t real smart like you white folks, but we know a whole heap better than let just the old-man chiefs come in to make a treaty. This way, we stand a better than even chance of getting the chiefs back again.’

‘Don’t you-all trust us white folks then?’ grinned Mark, sitting easily afork his huge bloodbay stud horse; a light rider who took less out of his mount than a less skilled man of smaller size.

Allowing his magnificent white stallion to fall behind his companions, the Kid moved it closer to Mark. Before the white came within range, Mark hurriedly removed his leg from the stirrup and clear of the big stallion’s shapely head. With the air of one who had proved his point, the Kid resumed his position level with the others.

‘We trust you white folks as much as you trust this old Nigger hoss of mine,’ he assured Mark.

One member of the party, apart from the Kid, regarded the sight of the tipis with pleasure. Driving a buggy, with two pack horses fastened to its rear, Professor Hollenheimer studied the groups of Indian dwellings with eager attention. He ignored the view of the fort, having seen many of them during his visits to different Indian tribes. While the materials used for construction differed to suit local conditions, the position of the various buildings altered, the basic layout remained the same. Guard house and cells by the main entrance, officers’ country made neat and homey, the spartan simplicity of the barrack blocks. Stables, picket lines, stores and administration sections, the saddlers’ and farriers’ departments spaced around the parade square, which in turn had a lane of jumps for the horses on two of its sides. None of that particularly interested Hollenheimer. His eyes feasted on the potential source of learning offered by the assembled Comanches.

‘Can you tell me what bands are here?’ he asked, looking at the Kid.

‘That bunch at the far side are
Tanima
, Liver Eaters,’ the Kid replied and his finger moved to the next loose circle of tents. ‘You can always tell the
Detsanawyeka
, they’re real slovenly in setting up camps, Their name means Wanderers-Who-Make-Bad-Camps. The Yamparikuh, Yap-Eaters, are next to the Wanderers. Then there’s the
Iteha’c
. They always put up more pemmican than they can eat and throw away all that’s not eaten comes spring, so old folks used to find the meat all black and spoiled and started calling them the Burnt Meat band.’

‘How about that small group by the stream?’ asked Hollenheimer excitedly.

‘
Pahuraix
, Water-Horse band.’

‘Is that the same as the
Par-Kee-Na-Um
?’

‘Sure, Professor. It means Water People. They always make camp on the bank of a lake or river. Coming by them, that next group, there’s a sight,’

‘What are they?’

‘
Kweharehnuh
,’ breathed the Kid. ‘The Antelope band, Happen they come in, the treaty’s safe.’

‘Is it?’ said Hollenheimer.

‘Sure. The
Kweharehnuh
are as tough as they come and none too friendly with the whites. If anybody stay out, it’ll be them.

‘Who are the big group of tipis separated from the others?’

‘My people,’ said the Kid, a note of pride in his voice. ‘The
Pehnane
.’

‘Then all the bands are here,’ Hollenheimer remarked.

‘Not all of them, Professor,’ Dusty corrected. ‘Lon never mentioned the
Waw’ai
.’

Until the attempted murders at the OD Connected, Dusty had barely heard of the
Waw’ai
band. Since then his interest in that particular section of the Comanche Nation grew and he looked forward to meeting the
Waw’ai
elders.

‘Most likely any of them who’re here have bedded down with the
Pahuraix
,’ guessed the Kid. ‘That way they can listen in on what’s said and take word back to the war chiefs. I reckon I’ll go take Grandpappy Long Walker his presents, Dusty.’

‘Sure,’ agreed Dusty. ‘I’d like to come around and meet him again later in the day.’

‘Feel free,’ the Kid offered. ‘You’ll be safe enough in any of the camps and nowhere safer than among the
Pehnane
.’

Unfastening the halter rope of one of the pack horses, the Kid gave a cheery grin to his friends and rode away from them. The horse carried presents and the butchered carcass of a white tail deer which he killed on the trip. While passing among the
Pehnane
tipis, he called greetings and received salutations from a number of people. After the War ended, he had found time to visit his grandfather and found himself still remembered.

A heavily-built old woman wearing spotlessly-clean buckskin dress and the ornaments of one well-endowed with wealth looked up as the Kid drew rein alongside her. Grave of feature, her age-wrinkled face creased in a smile while her lively eyes studied him.

‘Greetings,
pia
,’ the Kid said, using the respectful term for aunt. ‘I bring meat for your fire.’

‘I thank you,
Cuchilo
,’ replied Raccoon Talker, senior medicine woman of the
Pehnane
and who had acted as midwife at his birth.

‘And what do you see ahead, old one?’ asked the Kid, after dismounting and unloading a quarter of the deer’s carcass from the pack horse.

‘Trouble comes,
Cuchilo
. This council will not go easily. There are men, white and
Nemenuh
, who do not want peace.’

The Kid listened attentively, having seen something of the old woman’s predictions coming true. Back when he rode on his first buffalo hunt she warned him of danger and his horse fell — or had it been shot? He still did not know for sure — while running a bull. Later, while the Kid camped over a mile from the village so as to train his newly acquired white stallion, Raccoon Talker told his two best friends that he was in danger, needing their help; which he did. Accompanied by a group of captive boys, Fire Dancer and No Father tried to murder the Kid and steal the horse. A twinge of regret ran through the Kid as he remembered that both his friends died in the fighting.

‘They died as men,
Cuchilo
,’ Raccoon Talker remarked. ‘It was a good way to die.’

If the Kid felt any surprise at the way she followed his thoughts, he hid them and nodded in agreement. Any
Nemenuh
who met his end in battle, especially while trying to help a friend, could be assured of a place in the Land of Good Hunting.

‘What of No Father,
pia
?’ he asked. ‘I hear that one is a great man now.’

‘A gopher is a great one — to worms,’ the old woman answered dryly.

‘Is he here?’

‘Neither he nor that black-hearted witch who spawned him.’

‘Now that’s a
real
pity,’ said the Kid mildly and in English.

‘This is a peace council,
Cuchilo
,’ Raccoon Talker warned, although to the best of his knowledge she spoke none of the English language. ‘You could not satisfy your revenge oath here.’

‘You could be right at that,’ grinned the Kid, ‘I must see my grandfather.’

‘And I must cook my meat,’ smiled Raccoon Talker, then she nodded to where a bunch of young braves played
tir’awwawkaw
, throwing specially designed arrows by hand at a mark. ‘The
tuivitsi
are restless.’

‘
Tuivisti
always are,’ drawled the Kid tolerantly, having ridden sufficient war trails, despite his youth, to be classed as
tehnap
, a seasoned warrior.

Like a cowhand, no Comanche brave walked when he could ride, so the Kid swung back into his saddle and continued to ride. He stopped off to leave another present of meat with the family of
Wepitapu’ni
, War Club, who acted as his foster parents after his mother’s death. War Club was over at the
Iteha’c
camp playing the old Comanche gambling game of ‘Hands’, so the Kid promised to return and rode on to his grandfather’s group of tipis.

Admiration glowed in his grandmother’s eyes as he dismounted. Greeting the old woman warmly, the Kid distributed presents and then walked over to the main tipi, having learned he would find Long Walker there. Halting outside the door, a grin came to the Kid’s lips.

‘
Ehhaitsma
,’ he called, using the answer given when the grandfather visited a birth tipi to inquire as to the sex of the new baby and meaning ‘It’s your close friend.’ With the father away on the war path or other man’s business, most of the baby boy’s upbringing and training fell on the maternal grandfather and he did indeed become the child’s close friend.

Lifting the flap, the Kid entered the tipi. Long Walker advanced with a welcoming smile. Medium-sized, with a stocky, iron-hard frame that advancing years had not weakened, and a strong, dignified face framed by whitening hair, Long Walker looked much as when the Kid saw him last. He wore the ordinary buckskin clothing of a wealthy Comanche during normal times. In the centre of the tipi stood a rawhide wardrobe case, shaped like a white man’s letter envelope and called a
nat’sakena
, which held his best clothing, and a
tunawaws
tube-shaped bag containing his war bonnet, war paint, brush and mirror. When the time came for the big council, Long Walker could appear dressed as befitting the senior war leader of the
Pehnane
band.

‘Greetings,
tawk
,’ said the Kid, using the word by which grandfather and grandson addressed each other.

‘It is good to see you,
tawk
,’ replied Long Walker, shaking hands white-man fashion. ‘Is Magic Hands with you?’

‘He went into the Fort to see the chief of the soldiers.’

‘It is as it should be.’

‘How goes it with you,
tawk
?’ asked the Kid.

‘Well enough. Some of the
tuivitsi
grow restless and talk of going back to the old ways. It is only the old ones who know there can be no going back.’

‘One of the old ones must have told you,
tawk
,’ the Kid said. ‘It will be many summers before Long Walker is
tsukup
.’

‘Living among the white men has not made you forget how to talk to your elders,’ smiled the chief.

‘I am still a
Pehnane
,’ answered the Kid. ‘Now, I have presents and then we eat.’

At the main gate to the Fort a sentry halted Dusty’s party and the sergeant of the guard came over. Being a grizzled eteran who knew all sides of Indian wars, he showed some relief at hearing the identity of the new arrivals.

‘You’ll be housed in officer’s country, gents,’ he said. ‘Here’s the officer-of-the-day. Likely he’ll show you where to go.’

‘Now there’s something I’ve not seen in a long time, Dusty,’ Mark put in.

Following the direction of his
amigo’s
gaze, Dusty saw a couple of soldiers riding by and understood the comment. They wore the usual blue kepi and uniform of the US, Army with the cavalry’s yellow stripe down the trousers’ legs, sat a normal McClellan saddle and might have been the guidon-carriers for their company. Only no guidon rode on a nine foot shaft of best Norway fir, or carried an eleven inch long, needle-pointed steel tip.

‘Lancers,’ Dusty said and looked at the sergeant, ‘I thought you gave them up in the War?’

‘And so we did,’ the non-com agreed, eyeing the Lancers with faint contempt. ‘But some foreign duke came over here and got up a company of ‘em at his own expense. Look real fancy, Cap’n Fog, don’t they.’

‘
Real
fancy,’ agreed Dusty, recalling the Kid’s comments on the nature of a Comanche warrior who carried a lance into battle.

Before he could say more, Dusty saw the smartly-dressed officer-of-the-day draw near. Studying the uniform and general appearance of the lieutenant, Dusty pegged him as a well-to-do career officers Handsome, tall, with a cavalryman’s carriage, 1st Lieutenant Farley Manners struck Dusty as being the kind of officer who would go far; and Dusty had something of a way at picking such men. The guard sergeant drew back and Manners introduced himself, eyeing the Texans quizzically.

‘General Handiman would like to see you, Captain Fog,’ the lieutenant told Mark.

‘I’ll come as soon as I’ve seen to my horse,’ Dusty answered and saw Manners struggle to hold down surprise.

‘
You
are
Captain
Fog?’ Manners asked, poker-faced by an effort of will.

‘So I’ve been told, mister.’

Something in Dusty’s tone gave Manners a warning, One did not attain first lieutenant’s rank in peace-time without learning the value of discretion and diplomacy. When Manners came to look harder at Dusty, he recognized the real man under the insignificant exterior and figured it would go hard on anybody who crossed the small Texan. Yes, sir; there sat a man who could be
the
Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog whose name had been spoken of in rage, mingled with respect and envy, during the War.

‘The General said after you’d attended to your horse,’ Manners agreed, holding back his inclination to stiffen into a brace under the cold grey eyes. It annoyed him to have somebody make him feel like a West Point plebe addressing a very senior cadet. ‘I’ll escort you to the stab1es.’

‘Who else’s here, mister?’ Dusty asked as they made their way to the stables.

‘Only Colonel Goodnight so far,’ Manners answered, striding out at a brisk pace. ‘The Senatorial Committee are coming in on the evening stage — if they managed to catch it in the first place.’

Having served in the Army, if on the other side, and under senior officers of irascible temperament, Dusty and Mark could sympathize with Manners’ desire to carry out his orders. So they wasted no time in talk. On arrival at the stables, the two Texans put up their horses while an enlisted man saw to the buggy and pack animals. Finding that he had not been invited to meet the General at that point, Hollenheimer promised to see to Dusty and Mark’s belongings and attend to settling it in the room allocated to them,

Manners showed some relief as he led the Texans towards a small cabin mostly used as a store for officers’ travelling trunks and boxes which would be too large to keep in their limited accommodation. Wishing privacy, Handiman had had the cabin turned into a temporary office. After knocking and announcing the two Texans, Manners withdrew.

Big, bluff, capable-looking, hard as a combat soldier despite being based in Washington, General Handiman appeared little changed since their last meeting. He had discarded his jacket and wore a dark blue uniform shirt with a wide falling collar and the two stars of a major general on his shoulders. Holding out his hand, he walked towards the Texans.

‘Dustine, Counter,’ he greeted. ‘Do you know Colonel Goodnight?’

‘You might say that,’ Dusty smiled. ‘Howdy Uncle Charlie.’

‘Howdy, Dustine, Mark,’ Goodnight answered. ‘Ole Devil all right?’

‘Why sure. Said to me to tell you two not to get too drunk as he can’t be here to keep you under control.’

‘Did you have any trouble getting here, Dusty?’ Handiman inquired, face losing its smile.

‘Nope,’ replied Dusty, darting a glance at Goodnight, then to a couple of telegraph message forms which formed the only items on Handirnan’s desk. ‘We had a mite at the ranch before we left, though.’

‘Indian trouble?’ asked Handiman.

You might say that. Three
Waw’ais
tried to jump Lon and Uncle Devil. Have
you
been having trouble, Uncle Charlie?’

‘Not trouble, but close to it,’ Goodnight replied and explained about the men following him. ‘I can’t say as it was Indians, mind.’

‘We know that a
Waw’ai
Comanche killed Colonel Huckfield,’ Handiman put in, nodding to the telegraph forms. ‘And it’s likely that the Reverend Boardwell was murdered by an Indian.’

‘Have you heard anything from the Big Bend?’ Mark asked anxiously.

‘Not a word,’ the General replied.

A small sigh of relief left Mark’s lips. If there had been an attempt on his father’s life, he could rely upon it that either his brothers or Tule Bragg would send him news of the incident.

‘Nothing from Temple Houston?’ Dusty asked.

‘Not yet.’

The situation ran parallel to Mark’s case. Unless Houston had been ambushed and killed somewhere that his body could not be found, word was sure to have come in of his death.

‘I sure hope old Temple makes it,’ Mark drawled.

‘And so do I,’ Handiman agreed fervently. ‘This situation’s tense enough without any further complications.’

‘How do you mean?’ Dusty inquired.

‘As you know, there’ve been a heap of objections to the treaty. We’ve offered the Comanche a fair piece of real good land for their reservation and that doesn’t sit right in some places. Word has it that there’s a plan to bust the council up and stop the treaty being signed.’

‘Is that why you’ve been sent?’ Mark wanted to know.

‘I’m here in my capacity as head of the Adjutant-General’s Department,’ Handiman answered a shade stiffly.

While Goodnight regarded Handiman as a distinguished combat soldier currently acting as a figurehead commander of the US. Army’s legal department, Dusty and Mark knew that he ran the Secret Service since Pinkerton’s retirement at the end of the War. Clearly Handiman wished to avoid word of his appointment leaking even to Goodnight and the Texans respected his desire.

‘There’s smart brains behind the attempts and killings,’ Dusty said,

‘How do you mean?’ asked Goodnight.

‘Take the way they picked their victims, Uncle Charlie. Every one of them a well-known and well-liked figure who’s sympathetic to the Comanche cause. If you’d all been killed, there’s precious few would stand up for the Indians. Most of your supporters and all the fence-sitters would allow there’s no sense in standing by folks ungrateful enough to murder their friends. And the men behind the attempts likely have the means to get the stories going.’

‘You mean that white men planned them and used Indians to do the work?’

‘That’s just what I mean, General,’ agreed Dusty. ‘I know that a Comanche can find his way across the range easy enough. But not to go to a town and pick out the right man. We took a prisoner and he told us plenty. A half-breed brought his bunch to the Rio Hondo and they’d laid up a ways off for two days watching for a chance to get Lon and Uncle Devil. Indians alone wouldn’t do that.’

‘Did you find the half-breed?’ asked Handiman.

‘He lit out when the shooting started. Lon took his trail, but lost it and we hadn’t time enough to spend on a long hunt.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Dustine,’ Handiman stated. ‘It goes along with a few things I’ve learned.’

‘What I don’t get,’ Goodnight drawled when Handiman did not disclose the nature of his learnings, ‘is how the
Waw’ai
come to be mixed in this. They’ve never been friendly to the whites.’

‘From what we learned, their witch woman must be,’ Mark answered. ‘She sent the men out to kill and threatened them with a death curse if they failed or talked happen they were caught.’