‘What?’ asked his friends together.
‘I’ll tell you about it on the way back to the camp.’
While riding back, Loncey explained his theory and the other two agreed that he might have hit upon the answer. More than ever Loncey felt the uneasy sensation of being watched. Halting his horse, he turned in the saddle and slowly scanned every inch of the country around him, but without result. It seemed that neither of his companions had yet developed the instinct, for they showed no concern and took his action to mean that he sought for a sight of the sheep.
At the camp, Loncey helped Comes For Food to prepare for the night and Loud Voice went out in search of food. However they had been in the area for long enough to make the animals wary and that night, for the first time, the boys found themselves living on the rations brought from the village. Loncey knew that if his plan failed, he must call off the expedition and return; for it would be a sign that his medicine was bad. No leader had the right to command under such conditions. That night, after the other two went to sleep, Loncey sat by the fire and said a silent prayer to
Ka-Dih
that he might have success the following day.
Not until noon did they find what they wanted. It almost appears that
Ka-Dih
looked with favour on the boy, for the sheep—a flock of half-a-dozen rams—lay resting after feeding. Being on good grazing, the rams did not offer to leave although all stood up as they caught sight of the boys in the distance. Age-old instinct kept the sheep stationary. Their natural enemies, bear, wolf and the occasional cougar, hunted by stalking.
When the sheep saw a predator, they studied its actions. If it turned back into cover on seeing them, they realised that it probably tried to stalk them and so fled. When the predator remained in plain view, the sheep did not worry until it came closer and could become a danger. While not being sure what the boys might be, the sheep treated them as predators. Unconsciously Loncey hit upon the answer to the sheeps’ tactics.
At about threequarters of a mile from the flock, Loncey gave the order to halt the horses. He would have liked to go closer, but decided not to chance doing so. Too much depended on his making a success of his scheme.
‘This is our chance,’ he told the other two. ‘If it fails, we’ll go home.’
‘May
Ka-Dih
give you luck, brother,’ Loud Voice answered. Following the plan thought out, Loncey eased himself backwards out of the saddle. He moved slowly, sliding over the horse’s rump and keeping its body between himself and the sheep. Hardly daring to breathe, he stood still until Loud Voice told him that the sheep showed no signs of departing.
‘I’ll see if I can get up to them then,’ Loncey said. Cautiously he backed away from the horses, sinking to the ground with his rifle resting upon his arms. All the skill gained during his formative years went into locating the best route over which to make his stalk. Due to the nature of the ground he had to make a long detour. Taking advantage of every scrap of cover using each rock and fold in the ground, Loncey swung around in a rough half-circle that he hoped would bring him up close to the sheep for him to chance a shot.
At one stage he crawled almost an inch at a time, flat on his belly and ignoring the pain as rocks jabbed into his flesh through the buckskins, across some twenty yards of open ground as there was no available cover. Just as he felt sure the sheep must see him, a narrow crack in the ground appeared. Rolling over its lip, he advanced in comparative ease and safety for some distance. Further along, the only way led him across a narrow ledge with a sheer, fifty foot drop to jagged rocks if he missed his step.
Eventually he reached a point where he could see his two companions. They still sat their horses in the same place that he left them; a sure sign that the sheep had not moved. Reaching a group of rocks, he peered cautiously around them and his heart missed a beat. Not seventy-five yards from where he lay, the flock of sheep still studied the two boys and three horses.
In later years a shot at that range would have been simple enough; but at that early age it seemed like a great challenge. With infinite patience he slid the rifle forward between two of the rocks and snuggled down into a firing position. Cuddling the butt to his shoulder, he sighted at the nearest sheep; a young ram standing broadside on to his position. The rest of the flock lay down, watching the decoys, but Loncey felt the standing sheep offered him the best mark. Just as when he first aimed his bow at a deer, Loncey felt a wave of buck-fever hit him and the rifle’s barrel wavered instead of lining steadily. Sucking in his breath, he forced himself to be calm and took a careful aim at just behind the ram’s shoulder.
When sure of his aim, Loncey held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Never had the big side-hammer appeared to move so slowly as at that moment. It seemed to creep down at a snail’s pace before it finally struck the copper head of the waiting percussion cap. After the faint pop of the cap’s fulminate charge, what seemed like several minutes elapsed before the powder in the barrel exploded and its gas sent the bullet Spitting from the barrel.
Flame finally spurted from the barrel and a cloud of black powder smoke momentarily hid the sheep from the boy’s view. Although the Mississippi rifle packed a fair kick—Loncey did not use a bench-rest shooter’s extreme care in ensuring the charge of powder remained constant at each loading—the boy hardly felt its savage jab.
Then the smoke cleared and through it Loncey saw a sheep disappearing over the rim above him. Only for a minute did fear and disappointment bite at him. The remainder of the smoke wafted away and he saw something lying on the ground. Loud in the still air rang his wild whoop of delight at the sight of the ram sprawled before him.
Just as Loncey started to rise, meaning to dash forward and examine his prize, he remembered his experience upon his first hunt. With hands that shook a little, he reloaded and capped the rifle. Not until he held a usable weapon again did he advance towards the sheep. By that time his two companions had started the horses moving and rode as fast as they dared in his direction.
‘You did it, Loncey,’ enthused Loud Voice, dropping from his horse and looking down at the dead ram.
‘What a shot,’ Comes For Food went on excitedly. ‘It never moved after it fell.’
‘That was because the bullet broke its neck,’ Loud Voice pointed out. ‘Loncey shot it there so as not to waste the better parts of the meat.’
Loncey coughed modestly and did not offer to mention that he actually aimed at the ram’s body.
oooOooo
* How Loncey achieved his ambition is told in
The Ysabel Kid
.
** One occasion is told in
Apache Rampage
.
CHAPTER TEN
WITH the kill made, the boys went to work at butchering the carcass. Loncey allowed the other two to share the gall-soaked liver between them as a reward for their companionship. Even at so early an age, he knew how a name-warrior must act. In return Loud Voice and Comes For Food performed most of the butchering and left Loncey free to scan the surrounding area. Making the meat up into three equal bundles, the boys carried the sheep’s hide. They left behind the head, having split it open to feast on the brains. The Comanche had no use for horns as a mere trophy and the pack pony would be carrying enough without added, useless weight.
Once again the boys’ inborn instinct pointed them in the correct direction. When they reached the rolling plains, landmarks noted on the way out would guide them back to the village. If their people had moved on during their absence, any one of the trio could read sign and follow the trail to the next camp-site.
Having nothing more to hold them in the high country, and wanting to return to the warmth of the plains, the boys broke camp instead of staying for the night.
‘I kept thinking we were being watched all day,’ Comes For Food commented as he reached for the pack horse’s reins.
‘So have I,’ admitted Loud Voice, ‘but I’ve seen no sign of watchers.’
‘We are close to Apache country,’ Loncey reminded the others. ‘But, if they were Apaches watching, they have not come close.’
For all that the boys rode on until well after dark and made a fireless camp. Next day they continued the journey and towards evening found themselves travelling through broken, wooded country. All kept a careful watch through the day without seeing any sign of danger. Coming from the wooded land, they approached a wide, gentle-sided valley.
‘Look!’ Loud Voice hissed, pointing.
A party of riders came into sight on the other side of the valley; four stocky Indian braves, all well-armed, a tallish, slender woman and a boy of about the trio’s age, the latter couple each leading a pair of laden pack horses.
On observing the boys, the other party came to a halt and the braves reached for their weapons. Having the width of the valley between them, the boys saw no reason for immediate flight; especially when the braves did not carry rifles and sat beyond arrow-shot.
Clearly the braves decided there was no danger to themselves. Moving his horse forward, the oldest man made an unmistakable signal in the sign language all Plains Indians understood. Loncey raised his arm with the elbow bent and right palm facing the ground. By moving the arm to the right in a wriggling motion, he answered the request to be informed which tribe the trio hailed from.
At some time in the distant past a party of the People made a long journey in search of new hunting grounds. Not caring for the direction being taken, several members of the party insisted on turning back. Filled with indignation at the lack of faith in his ability, the chief who led them compared the dissidents to a snake backing up on its tracks. Since then the Comanche, no matter which band he came from, always used the sign of the ‘snake going backwards’ when given a signalled request for the name of his tribe.
‘What tribe are you?’ signalled Loncey, although he could guess, after announcing that he and his companions belonged to the People.
‘
Nemenuh
,’ grunted Loud Voice when the brave confirmed their suspicions by repeating Loncey’s sign. ‘The men are of the People, but not the woman.’
‘She may be the
pairaivo
of one of the braves,’ Loud Voice remarked. ‘She’s a Mexican, I’d say.’
Apparently the other party accepted the boys’ bona-fides, for they started to ride down into the valley and towards the trio. Not to be out-done in courtesy, Loncey led his companions to meet the visitors to their country half way.
‘The braves wear antelope skins,’ he said. ‘They must be from the
Kweharehnuh
coming to visit us.’
As he spoke, Loncey studied the approaching riders. The men looked much the same as warriors from the
Pehnane
village, except that most of their clothing came from the pronghorn antelope instead of the buckskin favoured, being more accessible, by the Wasps.
From the braves, his eyes went to the woman. Like Loud Voice remarked, no Comanche woman, she was taller and slimmer, with less mongoloid features than one of the
Nemenuh
. Most likely a Mexican captive taken as wife by one of the warriors; such often happened, Loncey guessed. He might have thought of her as still retaining signs of beauty had he been older, but at twelve gave little thought to such unimportant matters.
The boy would be the woman’s son if appearances meant anything. Stocky, typical Antelope Comanche in dress, his features held a sullen expression that would twist into real savage cruelty when older. Clearly he was a favourite son, or had performed powerful deeds, for a good knife hung at his belt and he carried one of the wood and elkhorn compound bows preferred by the
Kweharehnuh
, living as they did in country which held few trees. The boy sat a saddle upon a good horse and eyed the approaching trio with as much interest as they studied him.
‘Who are you?’ demanded the leading brave; speaking fluent Comanche, but with a quicker inflexion than a
Pehnane
gave his words.
‘We are from the Quick Stingers,’ Loncey replied. ‘These are Comes For Food and my brother, Loud Voice.’
‘And who are you?’ asked the woman.
That came as something of a surprise and caused Loncey to revise his opinion as to the woman’s status. No mere wife would dare to intervene at such a moment. In. fact only a medicine woman of some power would do so.
‘My name is Loncey,’ he said.
‘You are not Comanche,’ the woman went on.
‘My father is Ysabel, of the Dog Soldier lodge,’ Loncey explained. ‘And my grandfather is one called Long Walker.’
He could see that the latter name impressed the Antelope braves. However, the woman gave no sign of knowing the name of the
Pehnane
war chief. Instead she sat her horse and glowered at him with dark eyes which held a hint of something he could not understand. Young as he was, Loncey read the hate that flickered across the woman’s face at the mention of his father and grandfather, yet he could not explain it. The woman might be a captive but that did not necessarily mean she suffered torture at her captor’s hands. Being a realist, the Comanche rarely wasted time inflicting punishment that might kill or injure a useful piece of property. It had never been Long Walker’s way to do so under any circumstances. If the woman had been a
Pehnane
, an ancient feud might have caused her dislike; but she rode among a group of
Kweharehnuh
.
Although Loncey had heard of the death of Bitter Root, an unimportant detail like the feelings of the brave’s Mexican-captive wife had been omitted. Maybe Loncey would have understood had he known the facts; and felt concern at his present position.
After long years among the
Kweharehnuh
, Fire Dancer was returning to the
Pehnane
. Following the line used in her second marriage, she insisted that each of her subsequent husbands announced his will on making her
pairaivo
. Of course snags arose when the other wives demanded a more even sharing of property than the dead man desired and in each case Fire Dancer failed to make the grand swoop she hoped for. However four Antelope marriages, each ending in the sudden, mysterious death of the husband, gave her wealth. Considerable reluctance developed among the
Kweharehnuh
braves when word went out that once more Fire Dancer sought a husband. Finding no takers, Fire Dancer settled down to a widow’s life; which did not prove too unpleasant as the braves saw that she never went hungry. She also made advances to the village’s medicine woman and, at the cost of much property, learned various secrets. That had begun four years before and Fire Dancer might have succeeded her instructor when the other died had she not decided that she possessed the knowledge to extract vengeance on the men who killed her first husband.
Sitting her horse among the escort hired to guide her back to the
Pehnane
country, Fire Dancer glared at the tall, slim, handsome youngster. It seemed that the fates smiled on her, presenting her with such an early opportunity. Before her sat the son of the man she most hated; a favoured son if his horse, saddle, knife and rifle be anything to go on. To cause the son’s death would make a fitting start to her revenge on Sam Ysabel, especially as it had been the boy’s birth which led to Bitter Root’s death.
‘I hear his thoughts,’ she told the men, staring at Loncey with cold, unwinking eyes. ‘He is—’
‘Up there!’ put in the youngest brave of the escort.
All eyes followed the direction of his gaze and studied the two men who sat their horses at the top of the slope down which the boys rode. Despite the unexpected appearance, none of the Antelope braves showed any sign of alarm. While one of the pair might be a big buckskin-clad white man, the rifle over his arm reposed in a Dog Soldier medicine sheath, the second was clearly a
Pehnane
, as showed by the shield on his arm and the powerful wood bow in his other hand.
‘Ysabel!’ breathed Fire Dancer, recognising the white man, and wondered how she might turn the meeting to her advantage.
Before she could make any move, the Antelopes raised their hands in answer to the newcomers’ peace sign and relaxed. Starting their horses moving, Ysabel and War Club rode towards the others. Loncey felt some relief, mingled with surprise, at seeing his father and foster-father approaching when they ought to have been far off at the
Pehnane
village.
‘Greetings,’ War Club said to the Antelope leader. ‘I am
Wepitapu’ni
of the
Pehnane
Dog Soldiers.’
‘I am one called Burnt Grass of the
Kweharehnuh
. With me are Raider, Jose and Hawk Circling. This medicine woman asked us to bring her to your village. She is Fire Dancer and the boy her son, No Father.’
‘They will be welcome among our people,’ War Club promised formally.
As a medicine woman, although originally a captive, Fire Dancer commanded respect from even a name-warrior and she knew War Club told the truth. Seeing all chance of creating doubt as to the boys’ identity gone, she accepted the situation. With an effort she masked the hate in her eyes and nodded gravely in answer to the
Pehnane’s
offer. Once established at the village, she could take her time in arranging her vengeance against all concerned in Bitter Root’s death.
With the introductions completed, the combined party started to move once more in the direction of the
Pehnane
village. While making for a suitable camp-site in which to spend the night, War Club told the Antelopes of Loncey’s achievements. Showing as much pride as if the boy was his own flesh and blood, the Pehnane described Loncey’s defeat of ‘
Piamempits
’ and how he handled himself during the Waco attack. Grins creased the faces of the Antelopes and they praised the boy, being always ready to give credit where it be due.
Bringing up the rear of the party, Loud Voice and Comes For Food told No Father much the same story. Boastfully the surly-faced youngster insisted that he had also performed great deeds, but acted evasive when questioned as to what they might be. Nor would he accompany the others when they swung away from the main body to see what food they might bring in for the night’s camp.
‘I wonder what our father is doing out here, Loncey,’ Loud Voice asked as they rode away.
‘Perhaps they went after sheep too,’ Comes For Food suggested. ‘If they did, they couldn’t have had good hunting.’
Not until making camp for the night did Loncey learn the reason for his father’s presence. When the boys failed to return to camp, Ysabel and War Club questioned some of their friends. Considering the trio to be just a mite young for such an extended trip, yet not wanting to curb their spirits, the men took up the trail. On seeing how well the boys conducted themselves, Ysabel and War Club decided to remain in the background and not make their presence known. The meeting with the Antelope party brought them into the open.
‘We’d been watching you for three days, boy,’ Ysabel told Loncey, speaking English. ‘You did good on that last stalk, real good. Won me a good buffalo-horse off War Club, too. He said it’d take you another day at least to figure out how to get up close enough to drop a sheep.’
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Loncey admitted. ‘I thought for three days that somebody watched us, but never saw a sign of you.’
‘That figures,’ drawled his father dryly. ‘We didn’t aim to be seen. How’d you like to come down into Mexico with me next time I go, boy?’
‘I’d like it fine, ‘
ap
,’ the boy enthused, for such a trip had all the glory of a raiding expedition due to the prevailing conditions.
With feelings against Mexico still running high as a result of the war, and possibly seeking a more profitable source of revenue than the indifferent taxes paid by the Texans, the U.S. Government tried to impose import or export duty upon all good trafficked across the international border. Although originally sent to Texas as a law-enforcement and protective body, many U.S. troops found themselves engaged in the attempts to enforce the tariffs. That left the way clear for Indian depredations and brought much hostility from the Texans, who had disbanded the Rangers—a highly efficient Indian-fighting force—and found themselves left unprotected.
Regarding their neighbours to the North in no better light, the Mexican Government also tried to impose customs duties upon people trading across the Rio Grande. Between them, despite the length of the area to be covered, the two governments managed to make trading—or smuggling as it soon became—a decidedly risky pastime for the men involved in it.
Smuggling became highly profitable also, legislative prohibition invariably creates a demand for the banned items. People on both sides of the border suddenly decided that they could not exist without certain items obtainable only in the other country. All that remained was to find somebody willing to supply their needs—and there has never been a commodity that could not be bought or supplied, law or no law, if the price be right.