The taken, p.12
The Taken, page 12
Nearby, secreted in a heavy stand of mesquite, Runs Horses sat atop his pony watching his careless prey. Mounted with him were Little Bow, Bright Cloud, Snake Tongue, and Sunny Boy. Each of the young Kwahadi rode their best ponies. The horses carried the telltale sign of a war party, a knotted tail. Black paint hung heavy on the warrior’s faces, and a line of white extended from the corner of their lips to mid-cheekbone. The white streaks locked their expressions into a perpetual and sinister smile.
Runs Horses flashed his teeth, irritated at the man’s loud grumblings. “Whites,” he muttered. Since Wild Horse’s return from the hide hunters’ camp above the Canadian, roving war parties had scoured the Comancheria seeking out and killing small bands of white hunters. This morning was Runs Horses’s first encounter with these new trespassers. Glancing over to Little Bow, he nodded up the slope where he guessed the man’s crew slept. “Ride there,” he whispered to his companions. “Kill the others while they sleep.”
The four warriors nodded solemnly.
At the creek, the man knelt and lowered both buckets into the hole. As the water bubbled and the buckets filled, he cast a wary look across the stream. To the east, a field lark called at the rising sun. The sudden noise caught the man’s attention. He cast a hard gaze toward the sound and rubbed his chin. An anxious look crossed his face.
Runs Horses inhaled a steadying breath. He waited with great patience for the man to fill his hands with the buckets.
The man licked his lips nervously and shot a glance back across the landscape. He studied the eastern horizon for several seconds and then with a shrug, pulled the buckets from the creek. After one last cursory glance across the stream, he turned and started up the slope.
At that moment, a dull clatter of hooves and the swoosh of mesquite branches filled the air.
The hunter turned at the ruckus.
The war party exploded forward in a savage display of raw power.
The man’s face showed shock and then fear. He fumbled for his pistol.
Runs Horses screamed, “Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah!”
The man’s face turned a sickly pale.
Runs Horses grinned. The man did not carry a weapon to the creek. Foolish, he thought.
The man glanced up the hill, tossed a quick gaze at the marauders, and then began running for his life.
Urging his pony to a full gallop, Runs Horses was on top of the man within ten strides.
Little Bow and the others raced past, riding hard for the man’s camp.
The man glanced at the four warriors. His eyes widened in realization. He attempted to scream out a warning when Runs Horses ran alongside him.
The man swung his gaze at Runs Horses and, unable to control his feet, tripped headfirst into the side of the hill.
Runs Horses laughed at the man’s fear.
The man, desperate and scared, crawled on all fours, sobbing useless prayers.
Runs Horses leaned over his horse and swung his war club in a wide sweeping arc. The stone head crashed into the back of the man’s skull with a heavy thud.
The man crumpled in a heap.
Runs Horses vaulted from his pony with a flint-bladed knife in hand. “Hoo-rah!” he screamed. Towering over the man’s lifeless body, his lips curled into a beastly dangerous snarl, he grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and started his cuts. Within seconds, the man’s scalp rested in his right hand. He remounted and glanced up the hill, listening for any sound of resistance to Little Bow and the others.
The land was silent.
Runs Horses’s heart pounded rapidly. Admiring the scalp, he felt confident this would be only one of many taken today.
Runs Horses crested the hill and approached the hide hunters’ camp. Little Bow stood over a drawn buffalo hunter while Snake Tongue and Sunny Boy scavenged the hunters’ wagon.
Little Bow’s captive raised his head and looked at Runs Horses.
Runs Horses dismounted and stared with great curiosity at the hide hunter.
“By Gawd, your eyes are blue,” the man blubbered.
Little Bow had driven his lance through the man’s stomach, out his lower back, and then several feet into the sandy soil. Impaled, the man wiggled gruesomely against the skewer. Blood ran in a steady drool from the corner of his mouth.
Runs Horses stuck his nose close to the man’s face and sniffed.
“How can ya ride with savages? You’re a white boy, for blessed sakes,” the man uttered. Bubbles of blood foamed from his mouth.
Runs Horses turned to Little Bow. “This one has no fear,” he said, bewildered. “You need to break his medicine.”
Little Bow nodded and grabbed the end of the lance and immediately began rotating the spear in a circular motion.
“Awggg,” the man moaned through clenched teeth, and spit blood at Little Bow. “You’ll need do better than that, you red devil. I won’t die so easy for you!”
The four warriors gazed at the man in wonderment and then back to Runs Horses. Not one of the four understood the man’s words.
Runs Horses plopped down in front of the hunter, curious as to the source of his strength. He locked eyes with the dying man and observed him closely.
“Awwhhh,” the man continued to moan. His head rolled from side to side.
Runs Horses signaled for Little Bow to stop. “This one is not afraid of death or you,” he said frankly.
Little Bow released his grip on the lance and moved away several paces, mumbling in frustration.
Twenty yards away, Bright Cloud stood over the man’s companion. He held the man’s thick black scalp in his hand. “Well, this one cried like a woman,” he spit toward the dead figure.
Runs Horses nodded. He looked over at Little Bow. “This is your kill, but I ask my brother if I may try my medicine on him?”
Little Bow shrugged in respect and gestured with an upward palm at the hunter.
Already in his death throes, the man’s upper body shook in rapid uncontrollable twitches.
Runs Horses rose with great deliberation and moved behind the man. Leaning in close, he whispered in the man’s ear, “A Frog he would to Texas go.”
The trembling man’s jerking stopped. He stared ahead with dead eyes. A great chunk of blood rolled out of his mouth.
“Heigh ho. Heigh ho.”
“You’re a white boy,” the man burbled. “How can ya kill your own kind? Where’s your mercy?”
Runs Horses sniffed at the man’s neck. He smiled and looked back at Little Bow. “I can smell the fear now,” he said.
The man gasped for one last breath, and then his eyes slowly dulled.
Runs Horses straightened with a wide grin. “Heigh ho. Heigh ho,” he whispered.
The hunter’s head drooped unceremoniously toward his chest. His open eyes fixed forever on the lance running through his belly.
Runs Horses jumped on his pony’s back. He recalled his father’s warning before riding out for war. “Leave the hides and the hunters’ possessions, my son. To do otherwise is to take that which has already been stolen from the land.”
“Take nothing,” Runs Horses commanded the others. “Or we invite bad medicine on us all.”
Little Bow pointed at the dead man. “What about his scalp?” he asked in a challenging tone.
Runs Horses turned his pony’s head south. “Let him keep it. He died like a warrior. Besides, I now know my medicine carries much power against the whites.”
Little Bow frowned. “It seems a waste. His scalp would be honored on any of our lances.”
Runs Horses raised his brow. His face twisted into an expression of fury. “You want it? Take it!” he shouted. “You wish to weaken your own medicine? Then go ahead!”
Little Bow glanced away.
“But I warn you of this, Little Bow . . . ,” he shouted louder and pointed at each Kwahadi. “Soon you . . . and I . . . and the others will meet the Tai-vo-tovt in our homeland.”
Startled at Runs Horses’s pronouncement of the Tai-vo-tovt, the warriors turned their full attention his way.
“And when he comes, I tell you all this, each of you will need your strongest puha to keep your braids intact!”
27
North Fork of the Little Wichita, Texas, July 1870
James hobbled and staked Molly and the paint in an open meadow on the north fork of the Little Wichita River. The stakes had sunk into the red soil with little resistance. Ground here is awful soft, he thought. He poked a finger into the soil and withdrew a small amount of dirt. He rolled the damp earth in his palm and formed a small ball.
Mighty unusual.
James sniffed at the ball while gazing out toward the river.
Rains were through here last week.
He reached down and pulled up a plug of grass. Even with a good rain earlier, the browse was scant and yellow-tipped. “Good old West Texas wind,” he chuckled.
After wiping down the paint, he proceeded to give Molly a good rub. When he finished, the mule’s ears prickled forward and her lips curled outward. James tickled her bottom lip, hoping to stop the oncoming braying. “Not here, Molly,” he whispered. “You don’t know who or what is about.”
The mule raised her eyes to James and then relaxed, her mouth stifling the bray with a throaty snort.
James grinned in relief and rubbed Molly’s rounding belly. “Good girl,” he said. “Sorry about the browse here, but it doesn’t appear you’re going to starve any time soon.”
After rechecking each animal’s hobble, he gave Molly a final pat and turned his attention to locating a campsite. Cautious and attentive, James studied the surrounding country with care. Down near the riverbank, he spied a stand of pecan trees. The trees were tall and tightly spaced. Perfect. The grove would offer cover from any eyes approaching from the north. He glanced across to the river’s south bank. The river will protect my flank. Satisfied, he gathered his saddle and rigging and hauled them into the trees. When the camp was set, he sank to the ground and fell back against his saddle, weary and exhausted. He had left Fort Sill after breakfast call and had been in the saddle for the better part of eight hours. Within seconds, his eyelids drooped, and his head sagged. Fully relaxed, his chin bobbed slightly. The movement startled his eyes open. A shiver jerked his spine. He bolted upright, disconcerted.
“Whaa?” he muttered in confusion.
Tossing his gaze toward the meadow, he eyed the paint and Molly. Both milled about calmly, nipping at the meadow grass. James exhaled and leaned back against his rigging. Rubbing both eyes with the palms of his hands, he made a face.
You know better than to fall asleep in broad daylight.
Stifling a yawn, he cast a long gaze over the river. You best wake up. It’s still a while ’til dark.
Minutes later, James drifted on his back in the slow-moving water of the Little Wichita. Invigorated and fully awake, he stared at the Texas sky and spit a fountain of water from his mouth. The cool water relieved the tension of the day’s long ride and took his mind away from finding his brother. After floating for a hundred yards, James stood, dug his toes into the sandy river bottom and enjoyed a good stretch. Water dripped from his arms and hair, causing ripples to form near his waist. James stared at the small waves, mesmerized by their movement.
Lost in the day, James stirred up an image of Ma standing in the doorway of their one-room cabin. He inhaled. Venison and wild onion bubbled in the cooking pot. “Come in, boys,” she called. “Dinner’s ready.” James exhaled. A broad smile creased his mouth. That was the memory he had so desperately tried to capture since Ma died. That was the life stolen from him.
James lifted his eyes from the expanding ripples and stared across the river. A streak of shade crawled across his back. He glanced over his shoulder. The afternoon sun had dropped even with the pecan canopy. The water was suddenly cooler. A shiver traveled down his spine. He rubbed his upper arms and set the memory of Ma and the farm in a place where it could be easily retrieved. Turning back, he told himself, You best get dressed before dark, and plodded for the riverbank.
Back on land, an odd feeling descended upon him. James became still and chewed on his lower lip. His thoughts turned inward, where a strange longing clawed inside his head. Disturbed by the strange feeling, James hurried for the trees. As he walked, a blurry image took form in his mind. James squinted to fix his concentration, but a gauzelike film clouded his vision.
William Barett?
His brother’s features only appeared as a hazy blur, but James knew it to be William all the same. He blinked and rubbed his hand across his mouth. The ghostly figure shook an accusatory finger at him. James twisted his hands around one another. The figure wailed in pleading voice, “James! You weren’t supposed to let go of my hand! You weren’t supposed to!”
James released a shiver of nervous energy. His shoulders shook uncontrollably.
I need to be shut of this.
For the first time in many years, he realized that he wanted to be free of his obligation. “I want my life back,” he professed. “It wasn’t my fault!”
Energized by his decision, James tugged on his pants and grabbed a fresh shirt from his pack. As he pulled the wool shirt over his head, he thought, This bootless search for William Barett consumed Ma. She just wasted away . . . a little every day . . . until finally there was nothing left of her.
“You probably died fast, William,” he muttered. “But not Ma . . . no, she took a long time . . . and I reckon you aim to take me down that same trail. But I can tell you right now, I won’t be a part of it.”
Before he had left Fort Sill, Horace Jones had offered one last piece of advice. The post interpreter’s words rushed back to him.
“Go back home, James. Go back to Texas. You have the talent to find a job as an interpreter for any fort there. You’ve spent the last year alone . . . searching for a brother who by reasonable thinking died years ago or is a full-blood Comanche by now. Either way you can’t help him anymore. Your Ma would be proud of what you’ve tried to do. She’d understand if you quit now.”
And so that was it. As best as James could figure, Mr. Jones was right. It was time to give up the search. It was time to ride back on the trail he had left at age nine.
Resolute, James determined to start his life anew. “I’m truly sorry, William,” he pronounced. “But what happened that afternoon is finished, and I’m here to say I’m quit of it.”
At that instant, Molly let loose with a nervous bray.
James jerked his head toward the meadow. A flicker of movement caught his eye. In the distance, two Indians skulked along the edge of the meadow. They appeared to be moving for Molly and the paint.
Alarmed and without thinking, James instinctively grabbed one of his Colts and rushed from the cover of the pecan trees.
“Hey!” James shouted at the pair, and waved his hands for effect. “Get away from those animals!” The Colt rested in the back of his waistband.
Both Comanches wheeled quickly. Each warrior carried an eight-foot war lance.
James stepped back, astonished. He had seen these warriors before. In a second, his mind recognized the Indians. These were the Comanches from the lower trading post, the same two Comanches who had spoken of the mysterious Tai-vo-tovt killer.
“What tha—!” he exclaimed.
The nearer of the two Comanches rushed forward several steps and then paused. He studied James for a few seconds before turning to his companion. “Tonk Killer, it’s the white boy who cuts wood at the fort,” he laughed.
Tonk Killer studied James’s face and then grinned. “The boy from the trading post, Spotted Horse?”
Spotted Horse nodded.
Tonk Killer looked annoyed. “Kill him,” he said.
Spotted Horse studied James. “No, he’s just a skinny little boy. We’ll take his horse and mule and let him keep his scalp this day,” he scoffed, then added, “That should be a fair trade.”
Tonk Killer shrugged, turned, and set his lance on the ground. He pulled a knife from the waistband of his breechclout and focused his attention back on Molly’s hobble.
“Hey!” Spotted Horse shook his lance at James. “Go on, get away from here before I kill you!”
James nodded and stepped back. He kept his eyes locked on the pair.
Spotted Horse laughed. He shooed his arms at James and then turned back to help his friend.
James stopped. He gripped the Colt’s handle and pulled it from behind his back. Deliberate in his movements, he thumbed the hammer back. A distinctive click sounded.
Both Comanches stopped what they were doing and turned their attention back to James.
James’s legs trembled; his shoulders shook in convulsive jerks, but he held a firm grasp on the heavy Colt with both hands.
Spotted Horse laughed at the heavy gun. He rose and snarled at James, “Foolish boy, you should have left when I told you to.”
James inhaled a deep breath. His shoulders steadied.
Spotted Horse started forward. A look of impatient anger marked his expression.
Ignoring the proceedings, Tonk Killer sliced through Molly’s hobble, muttering, “Don’t waste any more time with him, Spotted Horse. Kill him.”
James lifted his brow as the blade cut Molly’s binding. He tightened his jaw. A pained look crossed his face. Mr. Jones’s words swirled in his head. “For once the killing starts . . . you won’t ever be able to stop it.” A drop of sweat ran into the corner of his left eye. He blinked several times, trying to stop the stinging. Your lot sure seems to be one of bad timing and ill fortune, he reflected.
Spotted Horse raised the lance and prepared to throw the spear.
A small moan of regret gurgled in James’s throat.
The Colt belched in a thunderous boom.
The approaching warrior collapsed. He remained motionless for a split second and then began to roll convulsively on the ground. He clutched at his stomach and screamed in pain.
