Ride the Wind

  Wanderer sat next to Buffalo Piss on a knoll outside the Texans' wooden village. It was the highest point around. They could see the women lining up in the sand behind and below them, waving their arms, hooting and calling out to their men to bring them scalps and presents. Dressed in their finest, the warriors formed their battle wedge, their ponies restless in the steamy heat. The men looked toward Buffalo Piss and awaited his signal.

  As he watched the young leader, Wanderer wondered when he had begun to change. Probably before they had left the main encampment, two weeks ago. The adulation would have been enough to turn anyone's head. For an entire day the war party had paraded, chanting its war song. They had ridden, double-file, through the huge camp. The women had lined their route, handing them pieces of clothing to carry as good luck, and promising them a warm bed when they returned. The celebration had lasted over a week. The People praised Buffalo Piss everywhere he went. He was their avenger, their weapon to regain lost glory. They believed he was invincible. And now he believed it himself.

  To believe one's medicine was powerful enough to make one indestructible was normal. But to believe it would make a thousand people indestructible was putting a great burden on one's spirits. As the days and miles passed and the People stole and murdered, took captives and swept unchallenged toward the Big Water, Buffalo Piss had become less approachable. He was now more hostile to suggestions and criticisms from his captains.

  Now Buffalo Piss raised his shield and dropped his other hand to the war whistle hanging on a thong against the elaborate bone bib that covered his chest. The whistle was made of an eagle's wing bone and had been painted and decorated with a long, beaded pendant fringed with downy breast feathers. He blew a shrill blast on it, like the cry of an eagle, and dipped his shield at the same time. With a howl, the warriors urged their ponies forward and the wedge formation opened into wings as they raced toward the town.

  Wanderer and Buffalo Piss spurred their horses after the men, all of whom were headed toward the first building on the outskirts of the settlement. One white man stood outside the customhouse door, a breechloader in his hands. He got off one shot before he was overwhelmed, but he went down swinging. The warriors trampled him as they leaped from their horses and tried to crowd through the doorway all at once.

  Cruelest One came back out first, pushing upstream against those who were still trying to get in. His friends, Skinny And Ugly and Hunting A Wife, followed him. They dragged a woman with them, hauling her kicking and screaming outside where there was more room to maneuver. The customs office itself was pandemonium. Men were tearing open every chest and emptying every drawer. When they found only paper, they threw it and the furniture in destructive abandon. Buffalo Piss had told them that the white men's goods entered Texas here, and he had promised them loot. All they found was paper.

  Those who couldn't get inside waited for Skinny And Ugly to finish stripping the woman. Many of them had never had a white woman, and they figured the town would still be there when they finished with her. Besides, she was beautiful, by anyone's standards. She had hair like the sun, and although she was almost as buxom as one of the People, she had a waist like a wasp.

  "Let's see what she looks like under all that cloth."

  "Hurry up."

  Skinny And Ugly ignored them and tugged at the stubborn blouse while Hunting A Wife tried to figure out the complex row of tiny hooks and eyes that fastened it up the back. Cruelest One pushed Skinny And Ugly aside and pulled out his knife.

  "Don't kill her yet" said one of the men. "She'll get cold before we all have a chance with her." Cruelest One scowled around him. Pulling the cotton away from her body, he made a slit at the waist. He slashed the material up the front, between the soft swells of her breasts, and pulled at the edges, ripping the blouse apart. The woman no longer screamed or struggled. She had fainted, and hung limply between Hunting A Wife and Skinny And Ugly.

  They began tearing at her skirts. Under her calico skirt she had several cotton petticoats, with flounces. The crowd moved in for a better view. Some of them jiggled their breechclouts, grinning in anticipation. Others began rubbing bear grease onto themselves so they would slide in easier. White women were delightfully tight, they'd heard, but dry. Of course, she wouldn't be dry after the first few men had used her, but it never hurt to be prepared.

  More cloth. Cruelest One tore the white linen chemisette with his strong, bony fingers, then stood back, puzzled. He studied her as she hung there between his two friends. In the middle of August, on the steaming Texas gulf coast, Mrs. Watts was securely strapped into a whalebone corset. Cruelest One reached out and yanked at the buckles and straps, lacings and hooks and eyes. Frustrated, he tried to cut the corset off, but his blade bounced off the bone strips encased in the cloth.

  Wanderer galloped up a little ahead of Buffalo Piss, and headed toward the other buildings. He was curious to see if this was indeed the source of the good things the white people had. Buffalo Piss was in a foul mood. He knew Night was faster than his own war pony, but he never got used to the idea. He pulled his horse so sharply to a halt that he reared, spraying the men with sand and gravel.

  "Leave that woman!" He was almost shrieking in fury. "Drop her. Throw her away. We came here to fight, not fuck." Cruelest One turned and glowered at him, one hand still on the corset straps.

  "I'll leave when I'm finished here." There was a quiet menace in his voice.

  "Stay, then. But the rest of us will get the loot while you waste your time with that woman." He yanked his horse around and set off at a gallop toward the center of Linnville. The others ran to their mounts and followed him, shrieking and howling. Skinny And Ugly, Cruelest One, and Hunting A Wife threw Mrs. Watts and her armor over the back of her own horse, tied her there, and set out after them.

  As Wanderer and the first wave of warriors swept into Linnville, the townspeople fled out the other side. They raced to the beach and pushed off in anything that would float. The raid had lost its most important advantage, surprise, because of Mrs. Watts and her corset. As the disappointed warriors ran up and down the shore, they screamed and fired their guns at the precariously loaded boats bobbing in the gentle swell. The people of Linnville shouted insults back.

  Wanderer cantered past the wharves with their piles of bundles and sacks, kegs and hogsheads, barrels and neat stacks of fresh, resinous lumber. There was a strong odor of tarred rope and raw cotton and burlap, rising with the heat. Some of the men were already breaking into the kegs and barrels, scattering flour and grain, coffee and bolts of cloth. Wanderer pulled Night to a stop at one of the weathered buildings near the docks.

  The sturdiest part of the building was its double door of solid, six-inch oak. It had a huge beam across it, fastened in place with a heavy lock and chain. Wanderer pushed at the door with one hand and saw that he would never get in that way. He walked all the way around to the back of the warehouse, and pulled his war ax from its loop on his surcingle. The boards at the back of the building were flimsy enough to shoulder his way in if he wanted to. but he had left his shirt off in the heat, and he didn't feel like pulling out splinters.

  Soon he was joined by others, hacking and chopping and kicking with their moccasins until they had a hole big enough to ride a horse through. Sunlight streamed through the opening and played on the heaps of goods, piled to the ceiling. The first box Wanderer broke open held the new percussion breech-loading carbines. He whooped, forgetting everything as he stared at the bright polish of their barrels. He handed them out to the others, keeping three for himself. He began smashing box after box, searching for powder and lead and bullet molds, metal and knives. Finally, in the stack of boxes next to the rifles, he found something better, paper cartridges. They were of a new design, but he knew immediately what they were. Ten cartridges and twelve percussion caps nestled in each package. And there were a hundred packages in each pine box. He quietly piled them with the rifles and began tying them onto Night.

  B
y this time the rest of the party had arrived, and the sounds of jubilation and destruction echoed up and down the hot, sandy streets. The warriors had torn apart the bales of cotton stacked by the docks and thrown it about until the streets looked as though snow had fallen in the August heat. Soon Linnville was littered with pieces of crates and scattered goods, sinuous trails of cloth and broken china.

  Buffalo Piss sent a reluctant Skinny And Ugly back to where the woman and young boys waited with the pack animals. Theoretically Skinny And Ugly was supposed to get a fair share of the loot, but he could tell that the usual procedure might not apply here, and it was every man for himself. He kicked his pony viciously, racing to carry out his task and return as soon as possible.

  Warriors began dancing through the streets, sporting their new finery. They wore top hats and morning coats, ribbons and ladies' bonnets and silk scarves. The air was filled with their shouts and laughter and the bawling of cattle as the raiders tried out their new guns. They rode around the milling herds shooting into them, like ducks in a barrel. Hugging one of the shiny, newfangled brass spittoons to his breast, Spaniard staggered up to Wanderer. He held it up, offering his friend a drink of what was inside. He had found a hogshead of whiskey. Wanderer sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose.

  "You know what that does to you, Spaniard."

  "Of course. That's why I'm drinking it. If it didn't do anything to me I might as well drink skunk piss." Spaniard howled at his own joke, slopping some of the whiskey over the curved rim of the spittoon.

  "Look!" He nodded toward the beach, not trusting his arm to hold the precious whiskey while he pointed. A lone man with white hair was wading ashore, leaving his leaky dugout to founder and sink. Judge Hayes brandished his rusty Revolutionary War musket over his head and shrieked at the warriors running by him.

  "You miserable swine. You destructive sons of bitches. You misbegotten spawn of the evil saint!" His voice rose to a shrill scream as the Comanche ignored him. "Maggots! Those are my cattle you're murdering." Spaniard was impressed.

  "He must have very powerful spirits with him."

  "Or he's crazy." Wanderer continued methodically sorting through the boxes he had pulled into the sunlight.

  "In either case, he's very holy." Spaniard reeled off toward the beach for a closer look at the brave man. The others seemed to agree with his opinion of Judge Hayes. None of them dared touch him. They dodged around him as they continued to shoot at the people baking in the boats.

  Finally the old man blinked, as though waking from a deep sleep, and looked around. He was standing alone on a bare beach swarming with murderous, drunken Comanche, and he was armed with a nonfunctioning gun. Judge Hayes started backing gingerly into the water toward the skiff that was being rowed in for him. When his friends pulled him over the side, his legs were trembling and he collapsed, quaking, in the stale, muddy water of the bilge.

  "Hell, Hayes, while you was there you could have at least brought us back some of that there whiskey."

  "Looks like it's going to be a long, dry day."

  "What possessed you to take on the Comanche nation thataway?"

  Judge Hayes finally got his voice back. "I was angry," he said meekly.

  "Angry? Judge, you was chewing iron and shitting nails!"

  "You suppose Doc has anything in his kit for sunburn?"

  "Maybe the ladies will part with some of their petticoats for sunshades."

  "Outstanding idea."

  Cursing and laughing, the men heaved the oars that pushed the sluggish skiff, its gunwhales almost awash, back out of range of the arrows and balls.

  On shore, Wanderer could see that there would be no official division of the spoils. While the others celebrated, he packed the things he wanted onto his animals. He took coffee for himself and for Sunrise and Pahayuca. They had all developed a fondness for it. He had knives and metal barrel hoops for arrowheads, bolts of cloth, a large silver soup ladle, ribbon and braid for the women— Something Good, Blocks The Sun, Silver Rain, Takes Down The Lodge, and Black Bird. He packed a white enamel chamber pot with small items of clothing, sewing notions, hardware, and gifts for Star Name and Upstream. Then he loaded five more mules with presents for his family and friends among the Quohadi. Most of it was weapons and ammunition.

  He carefully wrapped Naduah's present last, winding it in a length of soft wool blanket material. It was a Spanish bridle of tooled leather, heavily decorated with beaten silver disks and bells and tassels of silken cord. Then he went looking for Buffalo Piss.

  He found him riding among the revelers, urging them to finish packing so they could leave before sundown. He wasn't having much luck. The men were dancing around roaring fires in the summer heat. The women had butchered the cattle and were boiling stew in the most popular item, the large white chamber pots. They set them directly on the fires, and they were blackening with soot. The fires were built of smashed packing crates and furniture from the looted houses.

  Almost everyone was festooned with their new finery, and delirious with wealth and the white man's stupid water. Wanderer rode up next to Buffalo Piss, who was one of the few who refused to wear anything that belonged to the white eyes.

  "It's time to leave."

  "I know that." Buffalo Piss also knew that he had lost control, and he was blustering to cover it.

  "Will we be traveling south and west under the white settlements? There'll be no one to stop us there."

  "No. That will take too long. We'll head straight home, back the way we came." Buffalo Piss could sense Wanderer's disapproval. "No one will stop us," he shouted. "The Texans have fled. We're too mighty for them!"

  "They may be waiting in ambush to catch us when we return."

  "Let them try!" Buffalo Piss snarled like a cornered lynx, his child's face contorted with anger. "I'll be glad if they are. They're cowards. Nowhere have they stood and fought us. My lance is thirsty. I invite them to fight us. I want them to fight."

  "The stupid water has made the warriors crazy. They might not follow you."

  "They'll follow me. And if some don't, it doesn't matter. There will be enough to take care of the groveling Texans. We've beaten them. We've taught them not to think us weak. All we have to do now is go home, distribute our presents, and celebrate. We will talk of this victory for years."

  So, thought Wanderer, as he watched men stagger by him, singing and vomiting and falling down. The whiskey has conquered the conquerors. He felt suddenly alone, and he missed his friend who had died. He had disdained whiskey too. At least the two of them would have had each other for company.

  Liquor made strangers of the men Wanderer knew, and he didn't know many of them to begin with. As he rode through the littered town, dodging the unconscious bodies and roaring fires, he looked for anyone who might go back the long way with him. In an alleyway between two of the warehouses near the beach, he found Deep Water chewing on a half-raw steak. His pockmarked face was morose. His body was bare of white man's clothing, and his extra mules were carrying only what he had brought with him, except for one of the new rifles. He was keeping his vow to touch only those things of the white men that he could use against them.

  "Deep Water!"

  The boy turned and glared at him.

  "It's time to leave this place."

  "Tell those fools," he spat. "They're hibipa, drunk."

  "Might as well piss into a high wind as talk to them. Come with me. The great war leader plans to take a thousand people and three thousand animals loaded with loot straight back through enemy territory."

  "You mean Penateka territory."

  "It's not Penateka territory anymore, Deep Water. No matter what Buffalo Piss says. There are still Texans there. And they're probably waiting for us. I'm going back by way of Mexico. Do you want to come with me or not?"

  "All right." Deep Water turned and called through the window of the nearest warehouse. "Upstream." Star Name's eleven-year-old brother climbed through the opening and stood grinning
at Wanderer. He wore a pair of boy's heavy gray linen britches with the seat cut out of them. His round little buttocks gleamed through the ragged opening like the full moon through clouds. He had tied a green silk kerchief around his neck and wrapped his braids in strips of white lace.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Deep Water answered for him. "He sneaked away and followed the army. I've been hiding him so you wouldn't send him home."

  "Saddle your pony, Upstream. We're leaving."

  "But the others aren't ready to go yet."

  "We're not going with them. We're going the long way, south through Mexico and up the old desert raid trail, then back over. You can help with the extra horses and mules."

  "That trail will take forever. I have presents for Mother and Star Name and Sunrise. I want to get home."

  "Upstream, get your pony. I'm not going to waste time arguing with you."

  "No! I'm staying with Buffalo Piss. And don't try to force me to go with you." Upstream half-crouched, ready to flee.

  "Do whatever you want. I know better than to try to force a strong brave like you." Wanderer smiled down at the boy. "Tell Pahayuca that we'll be there eventually. As long as we're in Mexico, we might as well steal some horses." He spotted a familiar figure tottering into the alley where they stood.

  "Spaniard. Get your animals together. We're leaving."

  "I'm not through celebrating." Spaniard had lost his spittoon somewhere and was drinking his whiskey from an old powder horn. His braids had come loose and his hair stuck out from his head as though he had been struck by lightning. A lava flow of dried vomit fanned down the front of his chest, and he reeked of it. Deep Water turned to Wanderer and spoke softly.

  "We could use his help with the horses. I know a cure for whiskey. We just have to get him to the water."