Comanche Dawn (74 page)

Staggering back, he saw Casaubon fall to his knees, a slack expression on his bloody face. A musket went off nearby, engulfing the slaver in black smoke and fire. The cloud blew quickly away and revealed Casaubon, lying on his back, eyes open, and staring upward.

Jean fell forward, pain shooting through his innards. He turned his head to see the blue tent fall down, Villasur and the few soldiers he had rallied screaming as they fought to the death. Jean knew he would be dead himself in moments, and he found his eyelids hard to hold open, as if the tattoos weighed them down. He looked again at Casaubon. Dead. This time, surely dead. Horseback had not been here to save him again from the slaver, but Jean had fought well and lived the longest.

He was fifty years old now, and had traveled far, conquered much, loved well. And Teresa? Ah, well, she was young and wealthy.
C'est la vie.

He did not want Casaubon's ugly dead face to be the last thing he beheld in this life of earthly trouble, so he found the strength to roll himself over. Dust and smoke parted overhead, and Jean saw the morning's first rays of sun beaming through the leafy cottonwoods. It was quite beautiful. The sounds of the battle faded as he thought of Paniagua riding away on the big mule. Riding … Riding … Riding …

Jean L'Archeveque thought of meeting the good mapmaker, Goupil. And the Jesuit martyr, Father Membre. And Maria. Especially Maria. Sweet Maria, mother of his sons …

66

Since the strange and
painful thing happened to his leg, Noomah had begun to hear the big river speak to him. Like the river of his old home place, this stream possessed terrors in its quicksands and swirling eddies. Yet, the old river had never spoken to him, called his name in gurgles and laughing trickles. He had been too busy running to hear before. Now, Noomah could no longer run, and so he heard things he had missed in other times.

Since the big fight, when the pain lashed his leg and made his hoof flop piteously ahead of him, Noomah had not known the pleasure of speed. Each movement of his wounded leg brought agony. His two-legged, Hair-Like-a-Mane, cared for him, treating his hurt leg with strange-smelling things, but the sorrow of his forced lethargy made Noomah's spirit sink.

And the river called him.

He did not know fear, for Hair-Like-a-Mane kept him near the camp of two-leggeds where the meat-eaters did not venture. He knew neither thirst nor hunger, for his good two-legged brought grass and water to him. He could hobble about and graze. His two-legged would squat on the ground and watch him, speaking to him. Noomah would avoid moving his wounded leg until the last moment. He would leave it in one place on the ground as his other legs shuffled forward and his teeth cropped grass, until he finally had to step forward with the useless leg. Then he would lunge clumsily, keeping his weight off the injured limb.

Noomah could scarcely walk, much less run, and the river called to him.

The two-leggeds brought mares to him. At these times, Noomah would forget his sorrow and think of his loins. The two-leggeds would hold the mares, and he would mount them, rising with a thrust of his good leg. Astride the withers of a hot mare, his legs served him well—even the wounded one, for its hoof did not reach the ground—and Noomah could clench the mare's mane in his teeth and forget his sorrow for a few moments. Then the two-leggeds would lead the mare away, and Noomah would limp about in confusion. Had he not been well for a moment? Had he not felt sound, mounting the mare?

His belly grew round and heavy with grass. His back sagged, and the river called Noomah's name.

Now Hair-Like-a-Mane was scratching his withers, making him feel good. He lunged forward to get another sprig of grass. His two-legged's hand stroked him. Hair-Like-a-Mane made the noise Noomah liked, then turned away to the camp of the two-leggeds. Noomah watched him go. He wanted to follow, but he could not walk even that fast. He was slower than a two-legged. That was slower than slow. A gust of wind came from the river, and Noomah remembered what it had felt like to run. To run! He had so loved to run, his two-legged on his back, screaming the wild sounds, passing the other riders, the buffalo, the bleeding enemies. The gust came again from the river and it carried Noomah's name.

He made a lunge, then another, and another. He stopped to rest. He found the easy trail to the water's edge, and hobbled down. The water smelled good. The stinking rotten things did not bother him today. He smelled fresh water. He felt thirsty. The summer sun beat down on him. The water was cool. He would roll and cool himself. The river called him closer.

His name came louder on this day. The river had grown. It moved fast. Almost as fast as Noomah had once loped. It looked good, gliding by, carrying things that once had made Noomah fear its power. Something large and dark floated by on the frothy surface. It was too far away to strike, so Noomah just watched it. He stood now at the water's edge. The thing moved quickly by him.

He lowered his head, touched his muzzle to the surface. He sucked in a drought and felt it cool his throat as he gulped it. He raised his head, carrying a mouthful of water in which to loll his tongue about as if he were chewing it. The water sweetened the taste of green grass yet in his mouth. For a moment, Noomah forgot, and tried to put his weight on his bad leg. But the pain stabbed him and he had to lunge for balance.

He found himself standing in water up to his hocks and knees. The cool river seemed to soothe his pain as it pulled at him. Noomah had always feared the power, but now the river seemed to be inviting him. Might he ride it? The way his two-legged rode his back?

He pawed with his injured hoof. It did not hurt as much as stepping on it. He let it sink into the mud. It felt good. Noomah let his knees buckle and fell sideways in the water with a splash. The power of the river pushed against his belly. The water was cool on his back. He righted himself and, with a great thrust of his powerful hind legs, propelled himself deeper into the stream. He breathed deep, making himself float. It was like gliding above the ground, for Noomah could still feel the soft bottom under him. He was weightless, and he could use even his bad leg to kick and lift his neck and head out of the water.

He turned his tail to the power, and kicked at it. The river answered with his name, mysteriously babbled among all the rushing-hissing-gurgling-trickling-roaring sounds. He began to move with the water at a speed he had not felt since that bad moment in the big fight. He used his injured leg to bounce off the muddy bottom, while the others kicked at the cool power and drove him forward.

He heaved another breath, as in the old days when he would run. He lunged faster forward. Here, Noomah could use his power. Here, even his big belly did not drag upon his back. He was strong and fast. The riverbank slipped by his side, like timber moving by at a gallop. Then he saw the thing again. He was getting closer. The dark thing that floated in the water. He could catch it. He could.

His legs drove him with a fury, and even the bad leg made no pain, though it would not push the way the others did. Noomah did not care. He felt joy. He was moving! He raced the thing—the big tree in the water. The muddy bottom fell away from him and he floated like a spirit-pony. He swam through patches of light and shadow where the sun shone through the timber on the bank. He found a place where the water moved fast. He would catch the thing in the river ahead. He trained his eyes on it and drove onward as he blasted foam from his nostrils.

The tree was just ahead of him now, and it grew weary, for it sulled suddenly, the water piling up against it. It turned, and rolled, and lodged in the mud below it just long enough for Noomah to dodge around it and pass!

Now there was only flat water ahead of him, and the current gathered him into a place that went still faster. Noomah was tired now, but he did not want to stop. Now he knew why the river had called him. He sank lower as he blasted more hot air from this lungs. His body burned with a good feeling of exertion. As he lunged, he felt water rush into his nostrils, but blasted it away. He liked the speed. He would not go back to the grassy banks, where everything stood still.

He used all his strength, and all the power of the river, and went away—far away from the camp of his good two-legged friend. It felt like running. Yes, it felt almost like running. Noomah loved to run.

67

From where he sat
on the bluff, Horseback could see the lodges of his camp. In the distance, to the northwest, he could see the set of rocks where his mother had been buried. He could see the bend in the River of Arrowheads around which Medicine-Coat had disappeared. He could see the beautiful shapes the ponies formed against the vast expanse of grass—large bodies, rounded with muscle and fat, powerful legs tapering to mere arrow points that danced upon the earth, graceful necks lifting noble heads, flowing manes, and tails that twitched with contentment.

He sat, and smoked his pipe, and looked at these things. He saw a shadow on the ground, and heard an eagle scream between the shadow and the sun. He was weary. With a small party, he had ridden far in search of Battle Scar, in search of vengeance for his war pony, and his father. He had failed to find his enemy, but he had gone farther south than any
Noomah
warrior had ever ridden. He had seen strange new things.

He had discovered a new land. A land of hills and timber and clear running streams. A land of people called Tonkawa. It was the land of the lesser deer, a cousin to the great deer Horseback had always known—the animal to whom he paid homage with his taboos. Yet, this lesser deer was not sacred to Horseback, and he could kill it and eat it. It possessed a tail that flashed a white warning. It was good to eat.

There were bees in the land of hills and timber, and much honey. Trees grew there of a sort Horseback had never seen. One bore acorns, yet had small leaves that it held green through the winter. The lesser bear was abundant there, but the greater humpbacked bear did not exist at all. Horseback had followed a good river to this land, looking for his enemy, Battle Scar. He had found only the strange people called Tonkawas, with whom he had communicated in signs. They had advised Horseback that four sleeps south, a village of strange white men had built a large lodge of stone.

Horseback had gone south—only two day's travel for his mounted warriors—and had found the village of white men. They were Metal Men—Spaniards. He spoke to one of the Black Robes there, who was amazed that Horseback knew Spanish and had seen Santa Fe and Taos. This village of Metal Men was called San Antonio de Bexar.

Horseback and his party of explorers had stayed in the land of hills and timber into the winter, yet never saw snow fall. When he asked the Tonkawas why snow did not fall here, they only laughed. This was a place to spend the winter. He camped on a small stream, near a mound made of bones and burnt rocks that showed the Tonkawas had long considered this a good place to camp. He knew he would bring his people here in winters to come, for the low, timbered hills surrounded this stream like a pair of cupped hands holding water to drink. He had felt good camping there, for he never had to watch for the tracks of the greater deer. Only the lesser deer lived in this country of timber and hills. The Tonkawas would be easy to chase away, for they did not know how to ride and fight like Comanches. It was a good place, and he thought of it now, sitting on his bluff in the country of the River of Arrowheads.

His enemies, the
Na-vohnuhs
claimed all this land between the River of Arrowheads and the country of hills and timber. Yet, the Horseback People crossed this
Na-vohnuh
domain whenever they chose, without fear. One day, this would all be Comanche land. And yet, Horseback was weary of war with the
Na-vohnuh.
For many winters he had carried battle to any band of
Na-vohnuh
he could find, stealing ponies, killing warriors, taking women and children to sell to the Metal Men. He had seen friends and young warriors die. His people spoke constantly of war. War, war, war. In the council lodges, the veteran warriors—the Crazy-Dogs and the Foolish Ones, the Swift Foxes, Ravens, Buffalo Bulls, and Afraid-of-Nothings—they all spoke of annihilation—total destruction of all
Na-vohnuh
people, as the Northern Raiders and Crow and
Yuta
and Wolf People had once sought to destroy the True Humans. As the
Na-vohnuh
themselves, in the time of his grandfathers' grandfathers, had once sought to rub out the
Noomah,
almost succeeding.

Horseback was the greatest warrior in all of his nation. He had led the movement south. He had carried the war against Battle Scar and the
Na-vohnuh.
He had wanted total destruction of his enemies. But now, he was weary, and the spirits were speaking to him of changes. Perhaps his people would not understand him at first—especially the wild young warriors seeking glory—but he would begin a new kind of warfare. He had dreamed of it.

Raccoon-Eyes had come to Horseback in a dream vision during last night's sleep. Horseback had expected this ever since Paniagua rode a mule into his camp and informed him of Raccoon-Eyes's death on the Filthy Water. In his dream vision of last night, Raccoon-Eyes had appeared naked, and showed Horseback the wound Bald Man had given him.

“It is not a bad wound,” Raccoon-Eyes had said. “In the Shadow Land, it does not hurt. Nothing hurts in the Shadow Land. There are buffalo and elk to hunt. But these are not things for you to think of yet. You have work to do.”

“
Hah,
” Horseback had said. “I must destroy my enemies.”

Raccoon-Eyes had laughed as Horseback had never seen any man laugh. “The destroyer becomes the destroyed. The mistletoe feeds on the tree and thrives. Then the limbs break off, and the mistletoe dies. The sacred way of things that grow is the way of the spirits. Remember what the Metal Men have said about their sheep. Kill the sheep and skin it once. Let it live, and shear it many times.”