Just a hint of worry crossed Loncey’s face as he searched the surrounding country for some sign of the bear. Until the previous day he would have been eager to tackle the bear, wanting to progress to bigger game than the whitetail deer. After his unsettling experience with the sow and cubs, he did not feel so sure of himself and had no wish to be disgraced in his grandfather’s eyes by showing fear during a hunting encounter.
‘Is it long gone?’ he asked.
‘Not long, or far. No bear would travel far with a full stomach. There are its tracks. It is not a grizzly.’
Just a hint of relief showed in Long Walker’s voice. He saw a chance to restore Loncey’s confidence, but did not want to tangle the boy in the hazards of hunting a grizzly bear. Watching the boy, Long Walker read indecision on the handsome young face. However Loncey sucked in a deep breath, gathered himself up and forced himself to say the words his grandfather hoped to hear.
‘Shall I follow the tracks,
tawk
?’
‘Bear meat is good,’ the chief replied. ‘Let us see if we can get some.’
Following their established procedure, Loncey did the tracking while Long Walker followed close behind ready to assist should the boy run into difficulties. After leaving the doe, the bear ambled slowly down to a near-by stream, drank and then walked off at a tangent to the water. Loncey followed the tracks with no great difficulty, although not looking forward to the forthcoming encounter. Passing through some cranberry bushes, the boy saw a large hollow cottonwood tree which had been uprooted in some past storm amd lay on the ground. The bear’s tracks led into the yawning mouth of the tree.
A touch on the shoulder brought Loncey instantly to a halt. Obediently the boy sank down on his haunches and looked at his grandfather.
‘The bear has gone up into his den tree,’ Long Walker explained in a voice barely louder than a breath. ‘Now he sleeps far up inside it.’
‘How can we get him out?’
‘I will show you.’
Two kinds of bear inhabited the
Pehnane
country; the Texas flat-headed grizzly and the New Mexico species of the black variety. If the bear in the tree had belonged to the former type, Long Walker would never have thought of hunting it. Although the Comanche occasionally did hunt the grizzly—its sinews and tendons being prized above all others to be made into bow strings—they did so with extreme caution. Only seasoned braves, or
tuivitsi
seeking to make a name, went after
Ursus Texensis Texensis,
not a lone man approaching
tsukup
while instructing a boy.
The black bear did not rate that kind of respect in the Comanche’s book. Certainly the plan outlined by Long Walker would not have been suitable for use against grizzly; but had been found acceptable when dealing with
Euarctos Americanus Amblyceps.
Swiftly and silently Loncey and Long Walker advanced towards the cottonwood so as to put the chief’s plan into operation. Walking to the upper end, the boy halted and waited until his grandfather reached the open bottom. Laying aside his bow, Long Walker drew the tomahawk from his belt. He turned and nodded to the boy then swung back and crouched alongside the opening. Although not sure of what his grandfather hoped to achieve, Loncey tapped gently upon the trunk with his bow. At first nothing happened, but as the boy repeated the tapping he heard a faint scuffling from inside the tree. Catching the noise, faint though it might be, Long Walker tensed slightly and concentrated on the mouth of the hollow trunk.
A sharp pointed black head with fairly large, erect ears and a lighter coloured muzzle emerged from the tree trunk. Attracted by Loncey’s tapping, the bear came to the entrance of its den and peered out. Before the bear could emerge fully, or sense the danger and withdraw to the comparative safety of the hollow, Long Walker sprang forward. Up swung his right arm, the sun glinting on the axe blade. Around and down swung the tomahawk, driven with all the strength of the chief’s stocky, powerful body. Razor sharp steel bit into the bear’s skull, slicing through the thin layer of skin and penetrating the bone with the force of the blow. Instantly the bear collapsed, crumpling to the ground and giving only a few ineffective slashes with its legs before dying.
Due to its habit of occasionally walking upon its hind legs, the black bear was regarded by the Comanche as being closer to the human beings than any other animal they knew. So the slaying of a bear called for special medicine treatment if the hunter wished to avoid bad luck in the future.
‘I am sorry that I had to kill you, furry black brother,’ Long Walker intoned formally. ‘But my people have need of your skin to keep them warm in the winter and your meat and fat to feed them now.’ With the required prayer of apology ended, the chief raised his eyes from the bear’s body and looked at Loncey. ‘Always remember to speak those words when you kill a black bear,
tawk
.’
‘Don’t I say them when I kill a grizzly?’ asked the boy.
‘No apology is needed when you kill the Great One,
tawk
. The black bear is a coward who can easily be killed—although a mother, or one cornered or wounded can be dangerous. The Great One, the grizzly bear, is not a coward. No man who hunts him need feel sorry when the kill is made.’
‘Is that why you killed with the tomahawk?’ Loncey inquired, running his hand through the bear’s fur and thinking how it looked much less impressive and dangerous than the sow had on the previous day.
‘To kill with the axe is easier than with an arrow. The long fur slows down the arrow and prevents it sinking deep enough to kill.’
One look at Loncey’s face told the chief that he had achieved his intention, Long Walker took his chance to build up the boy’s shaken confidence. By taking advantage of the situation and the bear’s natural curiosity, he lured it out to its death—and showed Loncey that such an animal need not be feared.
‘This is a man-bear, not the mother,’ Loncey announced after completing his study of the animal.
‘Once you frightened her away, she would keep travelling for many miles,’ replied Long Walker. ‘As I told you, the black bear is a coward. Remember that and also that even a coward will fight sometimes. Now fetch the horses and we will take the bear to the village.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN sport hunting became fashionable and impressive trophies the object of the chase, few animals would equal the black bear as a subject of exaggeration. To hear the claims of trophy hunters, weights of five hundred pounds and over formed the usual heft of a black bear. In actual fact, one which went over three hundred pounds could be counted as exceptional. The bear killed by Long Walker did not even reach the two hundred pound mark, so he and Loncey found no difficulty in performing the skinning and butchering.
With the butchering completed, they loaded the meat and hide between the pack horse and their own mounts, swung up themselves and set off towards their distant village. Sensing the slight disappointment at the short duration of the hunt, Long Walker promised that Loncey could try his hand on any worthy animal seen during the journey home.
Although he kept his eyes open, Loncey failed to see either deer or elk. Not that he really cared, having fed well and seen his grandfather perform a great feat. After passing through wooded country for some time, they approached an area of rolling, open plains.
Halting his horse, Long Walker gave a sign which caused Loncey to come to an immediate stop. Eagerly the boy scanned the land ahead of them, hoping to see a herd of buffalo. It would be at least three more years before he rode in the hunting party among the men when they took out after the bison herds, but, like every Comanche boy, he hoped for a chance to bring one down before that day. He saw none of the shaggy-humped creatures, only two fast-moving dots in the distance. Rapidly the dots grew in size, taking shape as a pair of horsemen. After a few more seconds both Loncey and Long Walker recognised the riders as a couple of young Dog Soldiers who had left the camp earlier that week with a small raiding party.
‘It is Broken Nose and Bent Dogwood,’ Loncey remarked. ‘But where are the other four who rode with them?’
‘We will soon know,’ Long Walker replied. ‘Stay here.’
With that he rode from among the trees and into view of the approaching pair. Instantly they started to rein in their horses. Then, recognising him, continued to push their mounts in his direction at a better speed. Having attracted the braves’ attention, Long Walker withdrew into the trees once more. So far he could see no cause for alarm, but a wise man took no foolish chances in a world filled with numerous enemies.
Galloping up on their leg-weary, sweat-lathered horses, the braves continued to move until joining the chief in the cover of the trees. Once hidden from hostile eyes, the newcomers wasted no time in idle chatter for they brought grave, serious news.
At dawn that day, while searching for somebody who would serve to supply them with loot and coups, the raiding party came across a large camp of Waco Indians. Studying the Wacos without allowing their presence to be detected, the
Pehnane
party recognised two significant facts. Firstly they could not hope to accomplish anything against so large a band. Second, and more important, they saw that the Waco braves took down and stowed the tepees, having no women along.
Young though he might be, Loncey did not need to have the significance of the second detail explained to him. When travelling for peaceful reasons, an Indian took his family along so that the women could perform the menial tasks of tepee-erection and cooking. If the braves had left their women behind, it meant that they rode to make war.
‘They are following along the tracks our village made as we came down here,’ Broken Nose stated.
‘How many?’ asked Long Walker.
‘Ten hands at least.’
Even allowing for some exaggeration, the braves would not be too far out in their estimation of the enemy strength. Fifty men in the Waco party put the odds well in their favour. At the most, even counting youths not yet old enough to be classed as warriors, the
Pehnane
village could at that moment muster no more than thirty. While every Comanche was expected to be brave, nobody could call him foolhardy. That meant a head-on battle was out. Yet the property of the village must be defended and prevented from falling into enemy hands.
‘We’ll get back to the village and make ready,’ Long Walker announced.
Without any further discussion, the party started their horses moving. Loncey rode alongside his grandfather, having drunk in every word said, and wondered what plans might be running through the chief’s head. Three times during his young life there had been attacks by other tribes upon the
Pehnane
. On those occasions Loncey had been too young to take any active part. He believed that he could now lend a hand should it be needed and hoped to be given his chance.
Long Walker had almost forgotten his grandson as he sank deeper into thought. No general in the U.S. Dragoons, trained in warfare at West Point, ever gave more complete attention to details while planning an attack or defence. Using the experience gained during a lifetime of making war, Long Walker looked at the problem from every side.
Flight could be discounted straight away. No village, hampered by women and baggage animals, could hope to out-run an all-male war party. Covering six miles to the villagers’ four, the Wacos must eventually catch up when the hard-pushed work horses gave out.
Separating into small groups and scattering did not offer any better a solution. Many families did not have a grown man present and would fall easy victims to the pursuing enemy. All the Wacos needed to do would be select sets of tracks and follow them until finding their makers. After that it would be all too easy.
With two prime tactics inoperative, Long Walker saw only one alternative. Selecting their ground and taking every possible advantage, they must fight the Wacos and inflict such losses that the enemy would decide to run for safety.
Long before reaching the village Long Walker formulated a plan which might, given
Ka-Dih’s
blessing, work. He sent a crier around the camp to gather all available men at his fire. On hearing the news, the men came quickly. When all had assembled, Long Walker explained the position.
‘Bad news rides a fast horse,’ he said. ‘But I have a plan that might work.’
After hearing their chief’s suggestions, the assembled men sat silent and thought on his words. Using his knowledge of the enemy, local geographical conditions and the strength of his own force as his guide, Long Walker planned well and none of the others could offer any alternative arrangement. However one of his braves injected a comment.
‘Who will guard the horses, Long Walker?’
A rumble of agreement went up from the others. Following Long Walker’s plan would put the men selected in a position of some danger. Naturally the danger drew volunteers, as any hazardous mission always did among honour-seeking Comanches.
‘I will be one,’ said Broken Nose.
‘And I,’ went on Bent Dogwood.
‘The Waco will not attack if they see
tuivitsi
guarding the horse herd,’ Sleeps Long And Deep pointed out. ‘That is the work of boys, not brave-hearts.’
Already Long Walker had foreseen the snag and knew how to answer it. Yet the decision did not come easily to him. Slowly his eyes went past the seated warriors to where the boys of the village hovered in the background. By listening to the councils of their elders, the boys gained wisdom and also learned the kind of manners needed when they too joined the seated circle. Standing taller and slimmer than any of the others, even the fourteen-year olds, Loncey took no locating. Long Walker needed a brief moment of heart-searching before he pointed to his grandson.
‘Loncey,’ he said. ‘Come here.’
With his chest puffed out to almost three times its normal size in pride at being called to the council fire, the boy advanced. Squatting on his heels before his grandfather, the boy tried to assume a similar grave, unemotional facial aspect to the braves around him.
‘You heard what is wanted?’ asked Sleeps Long And Deep, studying the boy with an almost paternal interest.
‘I heard,’ agreed Loncey eagerly.
‘And you think you can do it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who do you want to be with you,
tawk
?’ Long Walker put in.
The task to be assigned to Loncey required the services of three boys. Beyond the council circle eager boyish faces tried to catch Loncey’s eye. Not that he needed to look or think.
‘Loud Voice and Comes For Food,’ the boy announced.
‘Do you think they will be able to do what’s needed?’ inquired one of the young braves, conscious that it was his first time at the council fire and wishing to have his presence noticed.
‘I think they will,’ replied Long Walker. ‘And they are just the right age for their task. Besides, we need all the older boys to help us fight.’
For a time the discussion went on and Long Walker laid his plans. Few people in the world equalled the Comanche for being ruggedly individualistic and independent; yet when they put themselves under the command of a war leader—be he a fully-appointed war bonnet chief, or a brave declaring that he aimed to take the war path and needed volunteer companions—they obeyed his orders without question. Shrewd fighting men all, they recognised a born leader and accepted Long Walker as the best man to guide them through the forthcoming battle.
Much praise went to the bringers of the news for the sensible manner in which their party conducted itself; the more so considering that all six were
tuivitsi
riding for the first time without an experienced warrior along.
On locating the Waco band and guessing its intentions, the leader of the party immediately dispatched his two best-mounted companions to warn the village. Next he sent the remainder of his party to surround the Wacos and, remaining undetected, keep watch on the enemy.
Towards evening two more of the scouting party returned, bringing further news of the enemy. Any lingering doubts as to the Waco’s intentions died as the scouts told how the enemy party rode fast and ignored a herd of buffalo which made its appearance. Only men bent on war would pass up such a chance to collect meat and hides.
‘They have two scouts out ahead,’ one of the
tuivitsi
told Long Walker. ‘Do you want us to go back and kill them?’
‘No.’
‘But they will come and see the horse herd,’ objected the second scout, knowing what would be the prime target of the enemy.
‘Then they will see what we want them to see,’ Long Walker explained, ‘and take word of it to the chief. Loncey, you know what to do?’
‘I know,
tawk
,’ agreed the boy.
‘Then go and do it.’
Riding through the gathering darkness far ahead of their main party, the two Waco Indian scouts kept alert and held their weapons ready for use. Yet, despite the careful watch, neither saw a sign of the
Pehnane
braves who preceded them in the direction of the village.
Cautiously topping a rim, halting just below it with only enough of them as necessary for looking over raised above it, the Wacos saw a sight which gladdened their eyes. Down on the floor of the wide valley beyond the rim grazed the
Pehnane
horse herd. Over a hundred horses and a number of mules stood, lay or moved leisurely, watched over by a trio of young boys.
‘Only the boys guarding them,’ said one scout, the younger of the pair. ‘Shall we go down and take them, the village is at least half a mile away.’
Being more experienced in the ways of the
Tshaoh
, the Enemy People, the elder scout shook his head. ‘No. Their braves would catch up with us before we could reach our party. Let’s go back and tell the chief what we’ve seen.’
Although he did not know it, the words saved his and his companion’s lives. Concealed close by, holding back their natural inclination to strike down an enemy, four
Pehnane
braves lined their bows and had orders to kill should any attempt at taking the horses be made before the arrival of the main Waco party.
Backing off the rim, the scouts made a long circle around the horse herd and reconnoitred the village. Neither felt particularly surprised nor suspicious at seeing how few men the village held. The summer had always been a favourite time for raiding and hunting. Their own village was also denuded of braves at that very moment. After studying the camp, the Wacos turned their horses and headed back to their companions. While doing so, they passed over the tracks of the second pair of returning
Pehnane
scouts, but by that time night had come and the darkness prevented the Wacos from seeing something which might have given them a grim warning.
A grin of satisfaction came to the face of White Crow, war leader of the Waco party as he listened to his scouts’ report. Mutters of delight rose from the other braves on hearing of the discovery of part, at least, of the
Pehnane
horse herd.
Any war party that entered the Comanche country came with one main object in mind, horses. Any other loot, scalps and prisoners would be acceptable, but were only secondary to the horses. Every Texas, New Mexico and Arizona Indian tribe gave the Comanche credit for being the supreme horse-masters of the red nations. Among the Indians, the Comanche stood almost unique in their attitude to horse breeding. Not for them to raise stock indiscriminately, so as to have prestige by numbers regardless of how the animals looked or worked. Instead the Comanche tried to improve the strain and supply himself with horses ideally suited to his nomadic way of life. Only the Nez Perce of the far West ranked with the Comanche in the quality of stock owned.
Small wonder White Crow felt pleased to hear of a good-sized Comanche remuda grazing in his path and watched over by what sounded like two
Pehnane
boys and a young white prisoner.
‘Tomorrow at dawn we strike,’ he announced.
‘At the village?’ inquired a brave.
‘We will take the horses first and drive them down through the village to waken those
Tshaoh
dogs. When they come out of the tepees, we can make a killing.’
‘The boys must be silenced before they can ride and give warning,’ a wily old brave counselled.