Comanche Dawn (55 page)

“When he trusts you. You have much work to do before you ride this pony.”

After two days, Crazy Eyes was able to touch the line-back colt all over. He could walk behind the colt without getting kicked. The colt would stand sleepily while Crazy Eyes moved a hand gently under his belly or between his hind legs.

“Now breathe from the nostrils of your pony,” Horseback said. “His breath is warm and sweet and carries his spirit. You will breathe in his spirit, and he, yours. You will know his heart.”

“Breathe from his nostrils? Will he not bite?” Holding the lead rope, Crazy Eyes turned away from his colt to cast his crooked glance at Horseback. When he turned, the colt promptly bit him on the shoulder.
“Anah!”
he cried.

Horseback burst into laughter, along with all the young boys who were watching, trying to learn.

“I will not breathe from her nostrils!” Crazy Eyes found blood on the tips of his fingers where he had grabbed the bitten place on his shoulder.

“This is good!” Horseback said. “He treats you like a pony. But you must know how to talk the pony talk. It is a sign of disrespect for one pony to turn its back on the other. That is why he bit you.”

“I must turn my back on my pony to lead him,” Crazy Eyes argued. “Will he bite me every time I turn?”

“You must earn the right to turn away from him. Next time he bites you, bite him back.
Kubetu!
” he growled, gritting his teeth.

“Next time?” Crazy Eyes said, uncertainly. “Will he bite my nose off if I breathe from his nostrils?”

“Come, elder sister. Will a pony bite kill you? Do you wish to ride with the Horseback People?”

Crazy Eyes drew himself taller and held his chin high. “
Hah!
I am not afraid of pony teeth!”

“Breathe from the nostrils of your pony, and his soul will be yours—his power, his spirit.”

Crazy Eyes approached his colt cautiously. He put his hands on the round jaws and eased his nostrils closer to the colt's. The first time he felt the blast from the pony's lungs, he pulled back, causing the colt to flinch. Soon, however, he was nose-to-nose with the colt again, seeking its spirit. The exchange of breath seemed to charm both man and horse for a moment. Then the line-back colt's head turned and his mouth opened. Yellowed teeth parted and reached for the side of the warrior's head.

The Grasshopper Eater was quicker. In an instant he had the soft nose of the colt between his own teeth. He bit so hard that the colt reared, lifting Crazy Eyes's new moccasins from the ground before he released his hold.

The onlookers fell about the grass and laughed as the trainer calmed the pony on the end of his lead rope.

“Good!” Horseback said. “Now he knows you will bite something bigger than a grasshopper. He begins to respect you, my friend.”

Crazy Eyes's grin glistened with pony blood.

The next day, Horseback gave Crazy Eyes a war bridle to use on his pony. They looped the length of corded rawhide, twice the length of an eagle's wingspan, around the lower jaw of the colt and gave him some time to grow accustomed to the feel of the thing in his mouth. When he stopped trying to push it out with his tongue, they began leading him around with it, teaching him to stop when he felt the rawhide tighten around his jaw.

The first time Crazy Eyes climbed onto the back of the line-back colt, he darted so quickly away that Crazy Eyes landed on his rear in the grass.

“Come,” Horseback said. “This one has the quickness of a heron. Let him plunge into the river.”

Gathering around the colt, the cluster of onlookers urged him into the water until he stood knee deep. He drank as Crazy Eyes gathered in a handful of dark mane with the same hand that held the reins. When he sprang from the water to throw himself across the colt's back, the colt tried to dodge, but the power of the river prevented him from moving quick enough to get out from under the rider.

Soon, Crazy Eyes was astride the dark line that coursed the colt's back. He smiled until he felt the pony rolling.

“Slip off!” Horseback said. “He will lie down!”

Crazy Eyes came off one side as the colt sank and rolled toward him.

“Now, back on!” Horseback said.

Crazy Eyes mounted again as the colt found footing in the mud. The colt turned for the bank, but the rider tightened the war bridle and pulled hard with one rein.

“Good!” Horseback said. “Make him walk. Make him turn. Use the power of the river!”

The sun moved three fists across the sky before Crazy Eyes let his colt come out of the water. Now he rode at a walk across the grassy riverbank and made the pony turn with hard pulls on the reins.

Horseback said nothing now, for Crazy Eyes had found the heart of his pony. After the river water had dried from the colt, and he began to tire and make sweat that turned as white as the tufts of a
sohoobi
tree in spring, Crazy Eyes dismounted to let him rest. He rubbed the colt with grass all over, making his coat look sleek and shiny and good.

Placing his palm on the flanks of the colt where the rays of Father Sun struck most directly, the Grasshopper Eater smiled, and said, “He is warm. He feels good.” Crazy Eyes placed his cheek against the flanks of the pony to warm his face. His eyes grew wide.

Horseback chuckled. “What do you hear with your ear pressed against the flanks of your pony, my friend?”

“I hear a great heartbeat, strong and steady.”

“What else?”

Crazy Eyes listened a long time. “A sound.”

“What is this sound?”

“It is a spirit-sound. It rumbles like the cloud-lodge of the Thunderbird, and roars like the winds of a storm in a canyon. It sounds far away, but it is near, for my pony possesses it within his own hide.”

Horseback eased around the opposite flank of the colt so he, too, could listen, though he knew the sound well. “You hear the power and feel the warmth of the fires of the sun, my friend. This is your pony. This is your gift from the spirits. Honor it. Use it. Consume it. Ride it to glory. When it is gone, get another.”

As the colt lowered his head and began to graze, the two pony-warriors listened, one to each side, their ears pressed against the ribs of the animal.

51

Jean L'Archeveque climbed up
the ladder of his cubicle and looked out over the village of Tachichichi. The red face of the sun clung hopelessly to the eastern horizon, lending its glow to the earthen walls of the town. He wondered how low the same sun now shone on Paris. Was it noon in the pirate town of Petit-Goave? Did the cannibal coast of Fort St. Louis still reek of death and slime pits?

Jean had seen much of the world in his thirty-nine years. He missed France, and Petit-Goave, where the language of his people drifted through the taverns and streets, lilting from the lips of women like the songs of warblers, growling from the throats of men like the threats of grackles. But a man who wore the Raccoon-Eyed tattoos of the wilderness on his face belonged on the frontier.

Scanning the grounds, he found Speaks Twice mounted and waiting. The translator had even gone so far as to saddle Jean's horse for him, seemingly anxious to meet with his friends upstream.

Jean, too, looked forward to seeing the Comanches again, especially Horseback. Six winters had passed since these first Comanches rode into Santa Fe with Bad Camper, the
Yuta
chief. Six winters had passed since Padre Ugarte and
Capitán
Lujan had attempted to beat Horseback into slave captivity. Six winters had passed since Horseback's little band of mounted warriors had stormed through the governor's trade caravan, and through the entire frontier kingdom of Nuevo Mexico, taking every pony they cared to own.

Often Jean had wondered how Horseback had fared in the Snake lands far to the north. Somehow, he had known the young rider would return. Jean lowered the ladder to the ground outside the little rock-and-adobe room that served as his lodge and trading post. He made his way down the steps and walked briskly across the plaza to join Speaks Twice. He said nothing as he mounted, but smiled and nodded westward. Speaks Twice returned the smile, and they rode.

*   *   *

Their shadows darkened the grass below the bellies of their horses when Jean first noticed the tall hide lodges ahead in the valley of the Rio Napestle. He reined in his mount to observe the surprising size of the camp. Even the lodges themselves were larger than he had expected. He had always heard that the Snake People were poor. Even Horseback, who would naturally shed the most favorable light upon his own people, had described the
Noomah
as surrounded by enemies, forced onto poor hunting grounds, and constantly in search of food.

Were the people of Horseback's band still Snakes? Had they not broken away from their brethren hundreds of leagues to the north? Yes, they still spoke the Snake tongue, and held fast to the Snake customs. But Jean had seen poor
Indios,
and this camp spoke of wealth. Little things told of a rise from Snake poverty. The lazy camp dogs lounged in the shade of river timber instead of prowling hungrily through the valley. Most of the lodges were painted with bright designs, bespeaking leisure time for artistic endeavors. Sacred shields and weapons stood in neat clusters, hanging from tripods of lances bedecked with feathers and furs. The drying racks sagged with the weight of meat. Many square frames stretched the upright skins of deer, antelope, and bear, while buffalo and elk hides lay staked to the ground like leaves scattered under a maple tree.

Then there were the horses. Fat. Sleek. Few showed a rib. There were more foals here than would be found in a camp of starving people. Jean tried to number the ponies, but lost count at ninety when the herd wandered around a bend in the valley.

These people were not poor. These people were no longer Snakes. They were Horseback People. They were Comanche. The
Tiwa
prophesies had come true. A new nation of riders had risen beyond the mountains and migrated south, seeking wealth and land and especially—yes, most especially—horses.

But with new power came danger. Jean knew from his travels that the most dangerous people and the most dangerous persons were those who had suffered, then decided to suffer no longer.

He thought of Minime Duhaut, the buffoon from La Salle's ill-fated Fort St. Louis. La Salle had caught the little sneak-thief stealing from his own bed chambers in Paris. He had beaten Minime and impressed him into years of service on the frontier. But all the beatings in the world could not reform the likes of Minime Duhaut. Small of stature, he had been beaten all his life and had become immune to the pain of even the cruelest blows. And when Minime discovered a peculiar vehicle upon which to rise above the oppression he had suffered his whole life—the Cult of the Convulsionaries of Fort St. Louis—he had seized his chance at revenge, destroyed Fort St. Louis, and murdered the great explorer, La Salle.

Jean saw more nobility and honor in Horseback's Comanches than Minime Duhaut had ever dreamed of mustering, yet the danger in their rise from oppression existed as surely as Minime's act of retribution. Revenge was a prime motivator in the codes of the simplest civilizations. Thanks to the stupidity of Fray Ugarte and
Capitán
Lujan, Horseback already had reason to hate the Spaniards.

Then there was the problem of the
Inday.
This was strange. A war lain fallow for generations. Jean had heard of it from both the
Inday
and the
Noomah.
At some time lost in the recesses of antiquity, these two people had made bloody war upon each other. Both nations spoke of this in terms of legendary tribal memories from some distant land far to the north and west. By both accounts, the
Inday
had virtually exterminated the
Noomah
—the source of
Noomah
suffering and
Inday
power.

How long ago this war had occurred was something Jean had been unable to determine. The
Zuni,
who call the
Inday
“Apache,” claimed the
Inday
had come to the Pueblo country no fewer than a dozen generations ago. If this were true, the ancient
Inday-Noomah
war must have taken place hundreds of years ago. It was remarkable that a hatred could exist so long between two people separated by many generations and many ranges of mountains. But to a society faced forever with a struggle for survival, the threat of extermination could live a thousand years in the stories of old men and in the bloodlines of warrior sons.

No clash with the
Inday
had occurred since Horseback's Comanches had moved south to stay, but Jean knew it would come. War was on the horizon, and no amount of diplomacy could avert it. True, Horseback had made peace with the
Yutas,
but the
Noomah-Yuta
war had never been one of extermination. The
Inday
and the Comanche were bound to fight.

The question was one of which nation to take on as an ally. The Spaniards were already on poor terms with the
Inday.
Yet, relations with the Comanches had begun just as poorly. The
Inday
had been weakened by European fevers, yet strengthened by modern weapons given to them by French traders to the east They were much more numerous than these new Comanches, all of whom lived in this single camp on the River of Arrowheads for all Jean knew. But in their semipermanent farming villages, the
Inday
would present easy targets for the horsemen of the Comanche nation.

The Comanches were unpredictable. They were no longer starving, but they still remembered hunger. When it came to the warriors, each grown man possessed two memories: his own recollection of personal battles with enemies, and a tribal recall of an ancient
Inday
holocaust. They neither expected nor preferred to die old.