[Texas Rangers 03] - The Way of the Coyote (22 page)

Andy said, "I thought you had no fear of Indians."

"Not fear. Caution. Indians sometimes change their minds."

"If you didn't cheat them, you wouldn't have to worry."

"Who cheated them? All was done in the open, where everyone could see. I made no one to trade. It was of their own choice."

"With a little help from the whiskey."

Martínez frowned. "Do you want to go with us and find that boy, or not?"

"I've got no choice."

"Then keep eyes open, and ears, but mouth shut."

A
ndy was reminded how formidable distances could be across the high plains. Movement had always been slow when the pace was set by horses dragging travois loaded down with camp equipment and folded tepee skins. Plodding ox teams made it equally slow now. Much of the time he was hard put to see landmarks. The prairie had a gentle rolling character, the seasoned grass short and near golden in the sun. He sensed that Martínez knew where he was going despite the sameness of the landscape, mile after mile. Now and again Andy saw wheel ruts cut during some long-forgotten rainy spell, but these would quickly disappear. Even more rarely he would see a horseman or two at long distance. They vanished like wraiths.

Toward evening the little caravan reached a small stream. Andy tried in vain to remember if he had been there before. One small watercourse looked much the same as another. They made camp, and before long a half dozen Kiowas appeared as suddenly as if they had risen up from the ground. Using sign language and a few Kiowa words he knew, Martínez welcomed them to camp.

They sat and smoked around the fire, using it for ceremony but remaining back far enough not to be made uncomfortable by its heat. Andy quickly discerned that the Kiowas had little to trade, but nevertheless Martínez passed out a few cheap gifts, mostly small mirrors and shiny metal figures. One of the Indians had an ancient rifle but explained through motions that the hammer was broken. Martínez spoke in Spanish to one of the cart men, who took the rifle and examined it. Soon he was filing a replacement part from a piece of steel.

Andy wondered at Martínez's show of generosity when he had nothing evident to gain. The
Comanchero
told him he had much to learn if he should ever decide to become a merchant. "Next time they may have something to trade. They will remember us."

The Kiowas stayed to supper. By then the cart man had the rifle ready. He fired it once to demonstrate that it was again serviceable, though it missed its target by at least a foot. Andy saw that the sight was bent.

"Are you goin' to get him to fix that?" he asked Martínez.

The trader shook his head. "If they shot at you, would you want it fixed? They are happy enough that it fires."

"When are you goin' to ask them if they've seen some Comanches with a boy captive?"

"In time. With Indians one does not rush, or have you forgotten?"

Andy decided he had forgotten much. He had become accustomed to Texans' lack of ceremony when taking care of business. Like them, he wanted to get to the red meat first and handle the amenities later.

The Kiowas provided what Andy thought was the perfect opening. They were curious about him, for he was clearly white though he possessed many Comanche characteristics. With sign language Martínez told them that Andy had been stolen as a boy.

Impatiently Andy said, "Now's the time to ask them about Billy."

But the Kiowas moved on to other interests, and the question went unasked. Andy sat chafing, trying to control his frustration. At length he attempted to break into the hand-signal conversation, but the Kiowas ignored him.

Martínez quietly shook his head. "They get suspicious when you push. In time I will give them a little whiskey. It loosens the tongue. Go now, water your horse or something."

Andy forced himself to pull away from the conversation and put his trust in Martínez. But he kept looking back, trying to read the sign language from a distance, picking up only fragments of it. He watched Martínez produce a jug from beneath the stack of goods in one of the carts and pass it among the Indians. From the high level to which they had to tilt it, he knew Martínez had been careful not to give them a full container.

It took only a short time for the Kiowas to fall into a celebratory state. Not long afterward, they began falling to sleep, one by one.

Martínez appeared cold sober. He had made a show of drinking with them, but Andy doubted that much whiskey had gone down his throat. He walked up to Andy, nodding, in satisfaction. "They told me they came across some Comanches yesterday, with many horses and mules." He pointed northwestward. "A boy was with them. The Kiowas thought the boy was white. He seemed to be a prisoner."

Andy's spirits lifted. "That'd he Billy for sure."

"Not for sure. Could be some other boy."

Andy dismissed a fleeting uncertainty. "After we've come so far, it's got to be Billy. When are we gettin' started?"

"Daylight."

"We could go a long ways in the dark."

"And get lost. You are like the Texans, too much hurry. If we do find the Comanches, and the boy is with them, do not show much interest. They would ask more ransom."

"I don't care about the price. I just want to get Billy back."

"You must care. What if they ask more than your friends can pay? You do more harm than good."

"I have a knack for that."

"That I have seen for myself."

* * *

More than once, Martínez warned Andy not to set his expectations too high. Riding along ahead of the carts, he said, "We may find they have moved on."

"Then we'll follow 'til we catch up."

"Often they divide. We follow one group, we may find that the boy is with another. The Comanche are not
gente de razon
, men of reason. They are not like us, who find a place for ourselves and build our house and plant our fields. They are like the wild animals of the prairie, they travel where it is their pleasure, and when."

Andy realized Mart
í
nez was being realistic, trying to build his resistance against disappointment. But he preferred to remain positive.

"Old Preacher Webb often said that when you've got faith enough, your faith will usually be rewarded. So I've got faith, and I'm hangin' on to it whether I really believe it or not."

Martínez shook his head. "I wish I could take you to my priest. There is much he could teach you."

By the middle of the afternoon Andy began seeing horse tracks. A substantial number had been made by iron shoes. These, he reasoned, were from horses recently taken. The tracks left by Billy's pony would probably be smaller than the average. He found several sets of pony tracks but had no way of knowing which, if any, were Billy's.

Martínez warned, "If we do find the boy, show no interest. Make as if you do not know him."

"He'll know me. He'll figure I've come to rescue him."

"And you have. But do not let the Comanches know it."

Martínez had been over this ground before. Obviously he did not appraise Andy's intelligence too highly. Andy resented that, but he was in no position to do much about it. He was here at Martínez's sufferance.

He toyed briefly with the notion that he might do better on his own. He recognized it as an idle thought, even a dangerous one. But everything about this mission was dangerous. He had climbed out to the far edge of a bluff that could break off at any time.

Martínez said, "It is not far now. Soon there is water and a good place for camp."

The cart men were not the first to reach it. They came across a horse herd tended by two young warriors. Andy rode close, trying to appear curious rather than seriously interested. One of the warriors, armed only with a bow and arrows so far as Andy could see, rode over to challenge him. Andy spoke a greeting in Comanche. Still suspicious, the young man answered in kind. Andy complimented him on having so many fine horses. The warrior answered with a degree of pride that most had been obtained by honest theft from the Texans.

"Why are you with those Mexicans?" he asked.

"We visit many camps, trading."

"Do you think he would trade for some of these horses, and the mules?"

"On the right terms. "Trading is his work."

"He has with him whiskey?"

"You must ask him about that."

All the while he talked, Andy's gaze roamed over the horses. He did not see Billy's pony. Though disappointed, he was not without hope. The pony might be tied in camp. Most warriors kept one or more horses tied near the tepee in case of need. They did not walk when they could ride.

He pulled away to join Martínez and the carts. The encampment was not large, a dozen tepees lined along a small creek, their flap openings facing east so the morning sunrise would bring its light inside. Andy judged that most of the men had been away on a raid and had rejoined families at this prearranged meeting place within the last day or two. He smelled cooking meat and knew it was not buffalo. He had seen a couple of mule carcasses at the edge of camp, stripped of any meat worth eating as well as the hides. Mules were for trading or eating, not for riding.

A small group of Indians ventured out to watch the carts pass. Andy saw no friendliness in their faces.

Martínez moved upstream a little ways from the Comanches. "We camp here," he said. "Let them come to us. We do not wish to seem in a hurry to trade. They will expect too much."

"They didn't look all that glad to see us."

"There is a bad mood in this camp. I can feel it."

Andy guessed that something had gone wrong for the Indians. Perhaps there had been an argument over dividing the spoils, or worse, the raiders had lost a man or two in skirmishes along the way.

Riding past the tepees, Andy had given each a moment's careful scrutiny. "I did not see Billy anywhere. If he is here he must be tied up inside one of the tepees." He wished he could search every one of them.

Martínez seemed to sense his thoughts. "Patience. I said from the first, he may not be here."

"But if he isn't, he has been. I can sense it."

Martínez snorted. "Sense it? You think you can smell him, like a dog?"

"I've got a feelin', that's all."

"Someday you will have a feeling that you are about to be killed, and you will be right. Patience. With patience, all things can be known." Martínez looked back toward the Indian camp. His eyes revealed misgivings.

One of the cart men spoke to him in Spanish. Andy did not understand the words, but he knew the man was concerned about something. Martínez told Andy, "He says we should not stop here at all. But we will look the coward if we go on. You must never let the Comanche think you are coward."

They finished making camp. Martínez looked apprehensively toward the tepees. "Maybe they do not come to trade at all. That might be best."

"But if they don't, how will we find out anything about Billy,"

Martínez gave him no answer.

They had finished a meager supper when three warriors walked into camp. They walked silently around the two carts, peering inside without touching anything, then went to the dwindling campfire and seated themselves on the ground. They did not speak a word. In a short while others appeared, more or less repeating the motions of the first group. Several stared at Andy, evidently trying to figure out who or what he was, but they asked no questions and he offered no answers. The mood was sullen. Andy looked vainly to Martínez for guidance. Whatever the Mexican was thinking, he did not allow it to show in his face. He produced a pipe, stuffed the bowl with tobacco, lighted it, and handed it to the man sitting on the end. Each man took a couple of puffs and passed it on to the next.

They looked no friendlier.

With a combination of Comanche words and sign language, Martínez welcomed the men to camp and asked them what was their pleasure. Andy listened intently. He feared at first that he might have forgotten too much, but he found that he understood the talk. The gist was that most of these men had taken part in a raid that penetrated the Texas settlements, accumulating many horses and mules as well as other booty. They had returned to this place where their families waited. Dissension had broken out regarding division of the spoils, and this group had been left feeling robbed. A larger band had gone on with more than their share. These Comanches wanted to trade the mules and some of the horses.

Martínez replied that trade was his reason for being here. "Bring what you want to sell."

"First," said the man who seemed to be the leader, "you have whiskey?"

Reluctantly Martínez said, "Only a little. Afterward, we drink in celebration of a good trade."

"We drink now." The leader was emphatic.

Andy could sense a wreck coming. Angry at their fellow raiders, these Comanches were willing to take out their frustrations on whoever was handy.

Martínez went to the nearest cart and dug beneath a pile of trade goods. He brought forth a jug, shaking it to judge how full it was. "There is enough here so each can have a drink," he said. "After the trading, another drink."

The jug was passed, but Andy saw that the first who received it were partaking liberally of its contents. It was empty before the last three men had their turn. Quarreling among themselves, they turned on Martínez with a demand for more. Martínez spoke to one of the cart men, who hurriedly brought another jug. Andy could see tension rising in Martínez's face.

He decided this was his chance to look through the camp while the men were engrossed in the whiskey and the negotiations. He slipped away carefully, looking back to see if his leaving had been noticed. He saw no indication that anyone was paying attention to him. Walking down into the camp, he saw only women and a few children, most of them outside.

As he passed each tepee he called softly. "Billy! Are you in there?"

He received no answer. By the time he had walked through the entire camp he was satisfied that the boy was not here. But a nagging feeling persisted: he
had
been.