Ride the Wind

  Wanderer nodded. "I know that cure." They both leaped from their ponies and tackled the befuddled warrior. Together they dragged him around the building and through the sand of the beach, his heels digging twin furrows. They threw him into the water and pounced on top of him, dunking him and holding him under until he stopped struggling. Then they pulled him out and dropped him on the shore. On his hands and knees he threw up again, mostly liquor and sea water. He stood unsteadily and shook like a dog, spraying water from his woolly hair, and almost falling back down in the process.

  The three of them rounded up their share of the stolen animals and rode off. Spaniard drooped in his saddle and moaned piteously. Wanderer turned to Deep Water, a grin dawning.

  "It was a raid to talk about, wasn't it!"

  Deep Water smiled back, his eyes lighting his ravaged face. "Yes, it was." No one noticed their going except Upstream. He waved, then turned and ran back to the celebration.

  CHAPTER 32

  Ben McCulloch was satisfied. The chief had made the fatal error. Maybe it was overconfidence. Maybe it was an arrogant challenge, a gauntlet thrown down to the Texans. Ben doubted that it was stupidity. It didn't matter. The Comanche were taking the most direct route home, retracing their route north along the Colorado.

  As soon as he saw which direction the Indians were headed, he knew where to ambush them. He sent riders fanning out in all directions. Their orders were to assemble every able-bodied man available in the thick trees and brush along Plum Creek outside of Austin. The Comanche army would have to pass through Big Prairie, an open plain near the creek. They would be exposed there.

  "They'll never make it back with all that baggage." Ben looked at the bolts of cloth strewn along the trail. Already the Comanche's mules were tiring and being abandoned as the Rangers hounded them, sniping at the army's rear guard. McCulloch's men had been pursuing them for three days, and were losing their own horses. The men would jump off them as they fell to lie heaving and convulsing before their eyes rolled up and they died.

  Bill Wallace kicked one of the dented enamel chamber pots, sending it clattering down the hillside before it came to rest against a cedar bush.

  "Ben, they aren't splitting up and disappearing into the brush the way they usually do. Can't bear to part company with all those trinkets they stole. If their captain were smart, he'd dump all that frumpery and skedaddle."

  "He's smart, but he's not crazy. Would you tell five hundred blood-drunk, whiskey-soaked Comanche bucks to throw away more loot than they've ever seen in their lives?"

  "I see your point."

  "A reverse Trojan horse."

  "What'd you say, Ford?"

  "A reverse Trojan horse," John Ford repeated. "Instead of taking the fatal gift to the city, they've carried it out."

  "Well, Trojan or not, I wish we had some more horses. This campaign's been hell on them." Wallace went to collect his own.

  The group of men following Ben McCulloch and his little patrol of Rangers was growing. Seventy had joined from among the irate citizens of Victoria alone. All along the Comanche army's wake, small parties of Rangers, militia, and volunteers were gathering, growing, and coalescing. And more men were converging from the hills around the small, clear, tree-shaded stream known as Plum Creek.

  The Texans' bivouack among the hills looked more like a series of trash piles than a military encampment. There were makeshift tents of stiff black gutta-percha sheets and old blankets. There were lean-tos of poles and heaped brush. The area was littered with feathers and rabbit skins and bones from meals. There were rag patches for the muzzle-loaders, and bits of paper from the cartridges of those lucky enough to have cartridges. Most of the men had to make their own ammunition in the field. The smell of hot lead hung over the camp like a cloud.

  Noah Smithwick walked over to a group of men sitting around their campfire.

  "What are you boys up to?"

  "Just gassin' and a-prophesyin', Cap'n. Speculatin' as to the outcome of the day's fun." John Ford sat with them and had slipped into the protective coloration of their dialect. "These boys are from over San Augustine way." Ford was sitting comfortably against his pack. He held his makeshift steel-can coffee roaster by a long metal rod over the flames. The smell of the roasting beans overpowered the odor of boiling lead. "Care to join us for some coffee, Noah? Should be ready in an hour or two, after I grind the beans."

  "More than the coffee should be ready in an hour or two, John. The war party's getting close."

  "Good. I always did love a party." Rufe Perry had dropped out of the Rangers to farm, but the present trouble brought him back. He was mending his moccasins with one of the "whangs," the buckskin thongs he carried in his shot pouch along with a roll of leather for patching. "You lived with the Comanche for a season, Noah. How do they keep their moccasins from falling apart?"

  "They marry three or four women to mend them all the time."

  "Sounds good to me," said Rufe. "Don't know as I'd like an Injun woman, though. I hear they smell."

  "Smell!" Noah Smithwick rolled his eyes around under his bushy red brows. "Lordy, I can tell you they smell. They smell just like smoked ham, the most delicious thing you ever sank your teeth into."

  "The ham or the squaws, Noah?"

  "Well now, that all depends."

  "On what?"

  "On what you ate last." He ducked the oily cleaning rag that Ford balled up and threw at him.

  "Mind if I check your guns, boys? McCulloch said to." Noah spoke almost apologetically.

  "Yes, I mind," said Rufe Perry. "We've patrolled together for years, Noah. You know I can handle a gun." Old Rufe was eighteen and sensitive about his age, afraid others would think him green.

  "I know you can, Rufe. But a lot of these new boys put the ball in before the powder."

  "And a lot of them carry their guns around loaded and with the cock down on the cap. Or blow their fool heads off standing in front of the muzzle while they pull them through the bushes. That doesn't mean we're all idiots."

  "Don't get excited, Rufe. I'm just making a general check."

  "Well, check someone else. I'm responsible for my own weapon and I don't take kindly to anyone else handling it. Even you, Noah."

  "All right. You other boys hand 'em to me one at a time." Yes, sir, the Texans and the Comanche are a tot alike. Onery and proud.

  "Looks like we have company." The men turned to look in the direction Ford was pointing. A group of Tonkawa had arrived behind their chief. Placido stood bent over, his hands on his knees and gasping for breath. Sweat ran off his gaunt frame like rivulets down a stony cliff face. He and his fourteen warriors had run thirty miles. They would have cheerfully run another thirty for a chance to destroy the Comanche.

  "Where do you suppose their horses are?"

  "Same place as most of ours are. The Comanche have them." Noah stood to go on with his inspection among the other men. "Can you boys be ready in an hour?"

  "We can be ready whenever you say, Cap'n. I do wish we had time for some coffee, though."

  "Meet me at the big plum thicket in an hour, then." And Noah ambled off in that shuffling way of his. John Ford turned to Rufe Perry.

  "You didn't have call to get so riled. Noah and Ben are right to check guns. For people who have to depend on them daily, I never did see so much carelessness. I've seen men track a Comanche horse-stealin' party and charge them trying to fire rusty guns. The Injuns take better care of their gear than a lot of these men."

  "Mine's not rusty. When we charge, I'll be ready."

  "I know you will, Rufe. I just pray everyone else is."

  Ben McCulloch rode with his men, part of a long line that was scissoring in to meet one like it a half mile away. The plan was to catch the Indians in the middle. There was little talking. Each man was wrapped in his own thoughts. They were a cool-looking lot, grim and rough, but Ben could smell the fear in their sweat. He'd smelled it often enough before.

  The wind that blew in
their faces was heated, as though someone had left a blast furnace door open somewhere. Heat waves set objects on the broad, rolling prairie dancing to silent music. They distorted the distant line of riders until it seemed to undulate. Under his arms Ben's shirt felt clammy, and sweat tickled as it rolled down his neck and sides and ran from under his knees. His mouth was dry, and his lips stuck together when he closed them.

  The cloud of dust at the south end of Big Prairie grew larger. McCulloch studied it. Placido and his Tonkawa scouts agreed that there were at least five hundred warriors. And they had their families with them. That was bad. The one thing that would make a Comanche stand and fight was the need to defend his women and children. Otherwise, a fight with them could be like blind men chasing birds. They melted away into the country and disappeared.

  Dark figures emerged from the dust, and Ben strained to make them out. He shook his head, thinking for an instant that he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. Or hallucinating. Next to him, Bill Wallace laughed softly.

  "If that doesn't beat all. That's what's been terrorizing Texas." Buffalo Piss rode in front of his men, standing on his pony's surging back and shouting his challenge. His braids had been lengthened with horsehair and streamed five feet behind him. In one hand he waved his war lance, and in the other he held aloft a dainty, black, lace-trimmed parasol. He might sneer at white men's clothing, but a sunshade was too good to pass up. As it was, he was the most conservatively dressed.

  "Looks like a damned circus, with the clowns and the acrobats and the fancy riders all rolled into one."

  "Better'n any circus I ever saw. Look at the one wearing a lady's drawers."

  "I like the one with the stovepipe hat tied on with ribbons. And the one with the swallow-tailed coat on backwards." The men almost had to yell to be heard over the drumming and the war whoops.

  "Why don't they charge instead of showing off that way?"

  "That's the way they do things," Smithwick shouted. "They have to challenge us to individual combat first. More manly." Noah squinted to see better through the dust that was drifting over them by then.

  "And they're distracting us until their main column passes," shouted McCulloch. "Break through the outer circle of warriors and go for the horse herd. Drive them toward that swamp to the northeast. Get the animals on the run and the whole outfit will fall apart.

  "But Lord Almighty, look at them ride." John Ford was lost in admiration. "That one just climbed clear under his horse's belly and up the other side. And the horse running as fast as it can."

  "Only a Comanche can ride like that," shouted McCulloch. And he added in a much softer voice, "They ride horses the way eagles ride the wind."

  Upstream was herding the mules when the Texans charged, screaming like mad banshees. He heard the screaming and the shots and the pounding hooves as their momentum carried them through the outer ring of warriors and headlong into the women and children and pack animals beyond. Then he was choking in the added dust, trying to hold the animals in his section of the herd. Bucking and braying, their loads slipping and clattering, the mules started to swerve, looking for an opening. Their big eyes bulged with terror, and their stumps of teeth were bared.

  The young herders yelled and waved their arms to steer them back, but a few broke through, then others. A figure loomed out of the dust cloud, and for a moment Upstream thought he was seeing the great evil thunderbird with huge wings flapping. It was Bill Wallace, towering over everyone and waving a buffalo robe to spook the animals. His face was contorted in a howl and his fox skin cap with the ears standing straight up, tail flying, made him look half man, half beast. And quite mad.

  Upstream's pony panicked and was swept away with the herd. The boy pulled his legs onto his pony's back to keep from getting them crushed as mules crashed into him, their loads sliding off. Loot went flying as the animals bucked and leaped. Upstream was wedged in so tightly he couldn't see the ground. He could only cling to his pony, hoping there were no holes or crevices that would trip him. He had no idea what the terrain was like until the first mules started to go down far ahead of him. They had been driven into the quagmire that Ben McCulloch had pointed out.

  The animals went down struggling and shrieking as those behind fell over them or tried to climb onto their backs. Women and children, their own horses caught in the stampede, screamed as they were trampled. There was no way Upstream could stop, and he steeled himself to jump. He could clearly see the hundreds of fallen animals ahead trying to rise, pawing and rearing up halfway from the heaving sea of backs. Their necks and heads lashed from side to side with the effort, then sank again.

  When he felt the first falter in his pony's stride, Upstream leaped clear. His foot slid on the curve of the next mule's back and he put a hand on the animal's sweaty neck to steady himself. Without thinking, he jumped from back to back, bounding across the mass. He dodged flailing legs and hoofs and one human arm, the hand grasping desperately at the air. Using both hands to haul himself forward, he clambered over the bulky packs and rolling bodies, as though climbing the steep side of a boulder-strewn mountain shifting in an earthquake.

  He moved reflexively, his legs and feet finding footing and balancing with no conscious thought. His whole being, his years of play and training, orchestrated his muscles and sinews, eyes and nerves. He didn't hear the snap and crunch of bones, the clatter of metal, the cries or the shots around him. He saw only the next place where his feet would land. He heard only his own blood pounding in his temples, felt only the slide of skin and muscle and hair under his feet and hands.

  As he cleared the last fallen animal, he leaped for solid ground, and hit it running. His goal was a thicket of plum, but he didn't make it. He felt a pair of wiry hands grip him, the bony fingers digging into his armpits, as he was swung onto a pony's back. He turned to struggle and saw Cruelest One's face. It was grim and hideously painted, but comforting and beautiful to Upstream.

  Panting, the boy lay against the pony's neck and gripped with his knees to keep from falling off. As though his body had delayed the relay of messages from his eyes, horrors from his flight across the floundering mules flashed through his mind. He saw people pinned in the crush, their faces looking up at him in agony as he bounded over them. The adrenaline washed out of him, and he went limp and shaking.

  Cruelest One plunged into the dense growth of bushes and trees bordering Big Prairie, beating his pony viciously with his quirt to force him through the thorny tangle. They cleared the thicket and slid down the steep side of an overgrown ravine, the sounds of the battle dimming behind them. Cruelest One had no family to protect, and he didn't waste time fighting. They pushed on for a mile or two, always using the ravine bottoms and stopping still from time to time while white men passed on the ridges overhead. Finally Cruelest One stopped and listened. Then he hooted, and was answered by another call in the distance. He spoke for the first time.

  "Skinny And Ugly." They headed in the direction of the sound and found Skinny And Ugly and Hunting A Wife and their captive. Mrs. Watts was gagged as well as tied, and she was still naked except for her corset. Cruelest One was absolutely calm, which was when he was at his deadliest. He spoke in an almost conversational tone.

  "Why do you still carry that piece of baggage with you?"

  Skinny And Ugly squirmed and tried to look defiant. "She's beautiful, worth many horses. I'm going to keep her for a slave."

  "She'll be burned to a cinder by the sun before you get her home." Already Mrs. Watts was a deep pink color and her skin was peeling in huge flakes. Her terrified blue eyes stared at them over the tight leather strip in her mouth.

  "I'll cover her." Skinny And Ugly wavered. He was as close to being a follower as one of the People ever came, and a leader had arrived.

  "We have a brave here who needs a horse," Cruelest One said. And Upstream sat a little straighter in front of him.

  "She's mine."

  "Then you have the right to dispose of her any way you want
. Do you want to take her here before you do it? We'll wait five minutes." It was an enormous concession on Cruelest One's part.

  Skinny And Ugly was angry and sheepish all at once.

  "I can't get her unwrapped. I tried yesterday during the rest stops, but we haven't stopped long enough to really work on it."

  "Then she's of no use to us, and we haven't time to waste. We need that horse." Cruelest One leaned down and untied the ropes holding her on the pony's back. With his moccasined foot he shoved her off onto the ground. The other two men dismounted and helped him tie her to a nearby tree. Upstream watched with amusement as Mrs. Watts squirmed and struggled, tears streaming down her face and soaking into the leather gag. The men paced off seventy-five feet and nocked an arrow each.

  "We'll see who can hit the heart." Cruelest One fired first, and his aim was perfect. The other two arrows split his.

  "That was easy," called Upstream. "You should've stood farther back."

  The woman's chin had fallen onto her chest, and she hung lifelessly.

  "Upstream, get on that horse. Hurry." There was the sound of hoofbeats in the distance, and the three men ran to their ponies. They all raced off, leaving Mrs. Watts hanging near the trail.

  She had revived and was almost hysterical when Noah Smithwick and his men found her. The arrow was deeply embedded in the corset, but it had wounded her only slightly, stopped by the tough whalebone. She was lucky. As the Comanche split up and fled, they unburdened themselves of the spoils that had slowed them down. The corpses of their captives, black and white, women and children, were found littering the trails.

  The men of Smithwick's patrol stopped talking. Their faces were hard as they rode, or stopped to dig another grave. The last one had been tiny, for a baby whose head had been smashed against a tree trunk. This had become a hunt for dangerous prey.

  "Hold up. I gotta take a piss." Ezekial Smith had run out of powder and was carrying a captured lance. Its slender shaft was dwarfed in his huge hand as he walked off the cleared trail and into the bushes that grew over his head.