Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 5

  The acrid smell of burned feathers hung over the campfire. A turkey carcass, charred black and looking like a huge, jagged lump of coal, lay in the embers. Deep Water, the herder, raked it out with a stick and set it aside to cool. Huddled outside the ring of men, Cynthia felt the night wind on her back and the faint warmth of the flames on her face, chest, and shins. The dried black paint on her cheeks and body pulled at her skin. She picked at it with her fingers, peeling it off in flakes. Her stomach churned with hunger.

  Deep Water drew the skin back from the neck of the carcass. He slid it down the length of the body as though removing a glove, taking off the burned feathers and exposing juicy, steaming white meat seasoned with spicy smoke. The odor of roast turkey blended with the incense of burning juniper and perfumed the air. Wanderer passed her a wing and a handful of crunchy roots that tasted like chestnuts. She brushed the dirt off them and chewed slowly, never sure when or what she would eat next. She saved the turkey for last, savoring it.

  Overhead, a lopsided moon sailed along as the clouds raced past it. Tall pecan trees crowded along the quiet river, lying like black velvet below them. The deep green ribbon of trees along the water was an oasis in the expanse of short grass and stunted oaks and twisted junipers. The plain stretched for miles in all directions before bumping up against low, flat mountains dim in the distance.

  The group had passed an invisible line that day. The ninety-eighth meridian was behind them, and now they were in the Comancheria they ruled. When Cruelest One and Terrible Snows, Rachel’s owner, left, they seemed to take the tension and rancor with them. Wanderer sat until late that night, smoking, talking, and laughing with the other men around the fire. Cynthia watched him deftly make a cigarette, sprinkling the tobacco on a cottonwood leaf, rolling it neatly, and licking the edges to seal it. He lit it from a burning twig and settled into a quiet, bantering argument with Eagle, Big Bow, and Buffalo Piss.

  Cynthia’s head drooped, jerked up, then fell against her chest. She woke long enough to brush away last year’s crop of rotten pecans. She lay down on her side, hands pressed between her knees for warmth, barely daring to breathe for fear Wanderer would remember that she was only held by the leash around her neck.

  When she woke up hours later, the moon and the fire were low. A corner of Wanderer’s buffalo robe was draped over her legs where he had thrown it as he stretched out. She cautiously nestled a little farther under it, inching down with agonizing slowness rather than risk waking him. Wanderer did nothing carelessly. He meant the robe to be there and he knew she wasn’t tied up, but she had no idea what the limits to his astonishing kindness were or what price she would have to pay for it. In this new game the rules were not only unwritten but unspoken. Learning them could be painful, even fatal.

  She lay listening to the lonely night sounds of crickets and a manic mockingbird serenading a sleeping world. The yipping howl of a solitary coyote and Wanderer’s small act of humanity brought tears to her eyes. The trickle turned to a flood that burst the dam she had built against all the battering horrors of the past five days. The knowledge that she was totally alone and helpless in a brutal, hostile world washed over her, overwhelmed her, and swept her away. She sobbed silently and convulsively for the loss of everything she loved.

  Escape was impossible. The plains stretched away on all sides, vast and dry and featureless. There were wolves out there, and bears and snakes and hunger and thirst and slow death. Even if she managed to hide in a land where there were no hiding places, where would she run? Her father was hanging from the fort’s gate. The curly brown hair that she had loved to play with would decorate some savage’s shield. Her mother and brother and sister were probably dead. If her mother was a captive somewhere, she was suffering as Rachel suffered. The thought almost forced her to cry out in pain. No. Not that. She bit her lip until blood beaded on it. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on exorcising that picture. It took her hours to do it, and it happened only when she had finally cried herself dry.

  The howl sounded near her head, followed by a stench thick enough to stir—like a vat of fresh cow dung. Cynthia reared up, heart pounding. Across the fire Deep Water was leaping and shaking his right arm and yelping in pain and surprise. It looked like he was celebrating the scalp dance all over. Then she saw the skunk, its sharp little teeth buried in the fleshy base of the boy’s thumb and still stubbornly chewing as it was whipped back and forth. Blood flew in a spray, spattering everyone around. Buffalo Piss grabbed it by the tail and, jerking it free, swung it against the nearest tree trunk, splitting its skull.

  Dawn was still an hour away, but Big Bow built up the fire while Deep Water nursed his lacerated hand. Buffalo Piss carefully removed the skunk’s anal glands, handling them as gingerly as though they were made of spider webs. He hacked off the animal’s legs and head, gutted it, and held it over the flames to singe off the hair. Then he cut a long green stick, sharpened the ends, and skewered the body on it. He stuck the branch in the ground and slanted it out over the fire. While the meat roasted, the men made ready to move out.

  Buffalo Piss’s hand and forearm were stained green by the fumes, but no one seemed bothered by the smell that clung to him and Deep Water. It was so strong it burned the linings of Cynthia’s nose, and she kept as much distance between herself and the men as possible. She could do that because she was no longer burdened with the humiliating leash. It had been part of her for so long that there was a white ring circling her sunburned neck when Wanderer finally took it off.

  Her stomach revolted when she realized what breakfast would be. She fought down nausea when Wanderer gave her a small share of it. Was this another of their cruel jokes? She watched the others bolt theirs down, then sniffed her own suspiciously. She nibbled a piece, knowing she would get nothing else to eat until nightfall. It tasted like roast suckling pig, and she wished he had given her more.

  The gently rolling plain was washed in the pastels of sunrise when the party left the cover of the trees and headed into the dry, everpresent wind. The short, curly buffalo grass swept in front of them like a lawn thousands of square miles in size. Buffalo grass made the very best grazing, and it was too much temptation for a pony. The ponies slyly slowed the pace to a walk and began snatching mouthfuls as they went. Night finally feigned a limp, and everything came to a halt as the animals started grazing with singleminded fervor. The men had been expecting rebellion, and let them eat until they had had enough. A contest of wills developed over the definition of enough, but the horses lost it. Cynthia had almost smiled at Night’s limp. He was a wonderful horse, she had to admit. She resolved to slip him some of the grass he so obviously loved.

  As the day wore on the plain flattened out. Prickly pear grew into deadly thickets as tall as a man. Agave stabbed skeletal fingers up through the sward. A jackass rabbit, all legs and ears, leaped almost from under the horses’ hooves and bounced crazily away.

  To the south the occasional black dots of buffalo expanded and blended into a woolly mat that stretched to the horizon, where the heat set it to dancing and shimmering. The cat-hammed, spindle-legged little ponies began to prance under the soaring blue canopy of sky. Even Cynthia’s lumpy old packhorse lumbered into a spastic cavort and looked sheepish about it. Unable to hold himself in any longer, Wanderer whirled his black pony around and gobbled like a turkey.

  Whatever he shouted after that was an insult and a challenge. Buffalo Piss yelled to Deep Water as they raced off. The boy looked murderous as he rounded up the spare horses to drive them after the men. He lashed about him with his quirt and beat the slower horses with his bow.

  “Ob-be-mah-e-vah” he snarled at Cynthia, although there was no need to tell her to get out of the way. She had been keeping upwind and as far away from him as possible since his run-in with the skunk that morning. At least he had no chance of sneaking up on her to do her harm when Wanderer’s back was turned.

  Wanderer pulled out in front of the others. Throwing one leg o
ver the black pony’s back, he flung himself around to sit backwards, facing the others. He finished that way, making hideous faces and taunting them. When Deep Water and Cynthia caught up with them, they were amusing themselves by inventing new and impossible ways to ride. Eagle was standing on one foot atop his pony’s bare back and steering a careening course between mesquite bushes. Hooting like a mad ape Spaniard hung upside down under his galloping horse’s belly. The others competed to see who could pick up the heaviest boulder while riding at full speed.

  Bewildered, Cynthia watched them. Where were the murderers and rapists of a week ago? When would their boyish play turn into death and torture? Their erratic behavior left her more confused and warier than ever. She would never forget what they did to her father and grandmother and cousins. Cruelest One lurked in all of them, no matter how harmless they seemed. In play they were just as crazy and senseless as they were at war.

  She had seen no liquor, yet they all seemed totally intoxicated. They were. They were home.

  The rumbling could be heard for miles out on the plains. The Comanche called the Colorado Talking Water River for good reason. The racing, leaping rapids tumbling over its rock-strewn bed drowned out conversation. The group rode for ten miles along the north bluff overlooking the rich, narrow bottomlands. Late in the afternoon they stopped at a massive pile of boulders. Buffalo Piss resumed command and sent Spaniard grumbling off toward the west along the river. The rest dismounted and began rifling through their packs.

  Cynthia watched in rising panic as they pulled out their war gear. Was there a settlement in this howling desolation? Her grandfather’s fort had sheltered the last group of whites west of the Trinity River as far as she knew. Hope and fear played tug-of-war with her. Maybe there were enough of her own kind to rescue her. No. The Indians surely wouldn’t attack if they knew they were outnumbered. It must be a lone cabin of defenseless people. They were probably going about their business, cooking dinner, milking the cows, playing with the dog. Or perhaps it was a rickety, dust-covered wagon, dwarfed by the distances it was crossing, and led by weary pilgrims looking for their own Eden. Whichever; as soon as the raiders got within hearing distance she would start screaming to warn them. And she would scream until her captor killed her.

  Big Bow shouted and pointed to the northeast. Cynthia could see nothing at first. Then a small cloud of dust rose against the empty horizon. Whoever it was moved fast. The cloud seemed to grow as she watched it. The men went on dressing, pulling up their fancy leggings, smoothing the wrinkles out of them and tying them to their breechclouts. They painted themselves and greased and rebraided their hair. War shields were slid carefully from their soft leather cases and shaken to straighten the feathers rimming them. Wanderer tied Night’s tail up as though for war, and braided feathers and bells into his mane.

  While he was busy, Cynthia searched for some sign of settlers. If she only knew where they were, she could race to warn them. The memory of Wanderer riding backwards ahead of all the others taunted her, but she felt she had to try. As though reading her mind, he came over and slipped the noose around her neck again, leaving the other end tied to his wrist.

  Then she recognized the leader of the approaching four riders, and her legs went weak. She clung to the girth on her old horse for support, burying her face in the strong damp odor of his bristly hide.

  Please, God. No. Please. No more killing.

  Cruelest One was painted for death and riding up fast, beating his lathered, crazy-eyed piebald and raking him with spurs until blood mixed with the foam on his sides. Hunting A Wife, Skinny And Ugly, and the loud one called Esa-yo-oh-hobt, Yellow Wolf, followed. All of them rode with streamers flapping and lances held at the ready. Their bows and quivers were strapped on their backs, their shields hung from their left arms. Wanderer lifted her onto her horse as the rest of his group mounted and rode to meet the newcomers. They conferred briefly, then turned and headed along the river bluff into the setting sun.

  The light below them showed a settlement, but not a white one. Hundreds of squat conical tents were scattered among the tall cottonwoods by the river. Only the ones near the center of the village could be seen clearly. There was a roaring fire there that sent shadows leaping on the ghostly pale yellow curves of the nearest lodges. The other tents faded into the darkness, marching off through the trees like a spectral army.

  Buffalo Piss gave a long, ululating cry, echoed by his men. It was taken up and multiplied by hundreds of throats below until the wide, low canyon reverberated with it. Spaniard had alerted the People that they were coming. The ponies raced over the edge of the cliff and plunged headlong down the steep, black slope. They almost outpaced the small avalanche of stones and boulders ricocheting in front of them. Cynthia clung desperately to her horse’s neck, ready to leap clear when he stumbled and pitched forward. For once she was glad he was so slow. Wanderer had let go of her leash and there were few horses behind to trample her if she fell. She remembered the dense clumps of prickly pear and cringed at the thought of rolling into one.

  The horses smelled home. They all reached level ground with a jolt and headed toward the village. The raiders reined them in at the outlying tents and paraded slowly and solemnly through the narrow streets. Their kin and friends surrounded them, chanting and yelling. A troop of small boys fell in behind them, whooping and waving their small bows and lances. A few women called and held out their arms, promising their own form of reward. The celebration built in pitch and intensity and lasted long into the night.

  For Cynthia it was a blur of blankets and robes and leather fringes. Abandoned to the mob, she saw only a living forest of hands and arms, reaching, clutching, touching and pinching her. The waving limbs seemed to grow directly from round, malevolent faces. Young and old, male and female, they all looked alike and they all looked evil. She cowered, trying to protect her face.

  Then someone grabbed a piece of her smock and ripped it. The others began laughing and hooting and tearing at the tattered remnants of her clothes. Everyone wanted a souvenir of the yellow hair. When they started pulling her hair, she flailed at the hands and shrieked in anger and terror and shame. She grabbed a handful of the nearest coarse wiry mane and hung on. She was still pulling and kicking and screaming when everyone scattered. A monument of a man towered over her.

  Looking up, she saw a stomach. Folds and cliffs and escarpments of earth-colored flesh plunged into and over the rift of his breechclout, then surged out from under it and flowed down to make two vast, smooth columns of legs. She couldn’t see his face atop the mountain of his body, but he was so enormous she wouldn’t have been surprised to find his shoulders wrapped in clouds.

  Bending down, he lifted her easily and tucked her under one arm like a sack of flour. The crowd parted in front of them as he thudded through the village. Most of the lodges were dark and vacant, their inhabitants silhouetted against the fire. The emptiness of the streets and tents was almost as terrifying as the clamor. Suddenly Cynthia was seized by the wild fear that this giant was going to eat her. She started kicking and squealing and squirming again. But she bothered him only a little more than the horseflies that swarm in summer.

  A dim light showed through the side of a lodge in a quiet section. Cynthia’s captor pushed aside the hide flap covering the door and called to the woman inside.

  “Tsatua, Takes Down The Lodge, Wanderer has brought a yellow hair. I had to save the People from her. She was starting her own scalp collection.” His broad, flat face wrinkled in a smile.

  Silently Tabbenoca, Sunrise, a solemn-faced man with short-cropped hair appeared next to Cynthia. She was passed over to him and he carried her inside. She still clutched long black hairs in her fist.

  “Thank you, Pahayuca,” Sunrise said quietly as he brushed by. “Takes Down The Lodge needs her.”

  “Thank you, Pahayuca,” the woman’s low voice called from inside. Pahayuca, He Who Has Relations With His Aunt, crouched to look in the doorway. He fil
led the opening and overflowed along the sides of the tent.

  “I did nothing.” His deep, gutteral voice rumbled up from his throat like tremors reaching the earth’s surface. “Thank Wanderer when you see him, Ara, my nephew. The trip was a long one. You might give him an extra present for his trouble.”

  “Of course,” said Sunrise. “I will tomorrow when I pay him for her. We feared he wouldn’t find one.”

  “This one looks suitable enough. She’s strong. She’ll be a good worker,” said Pahayuca.

  The garble of words passed back and forth over Cynthia’s head as she stood swaying on the hard-packed dirt where Sunrise had set her. The close heavy air and the wild medley of odors in the tent made her dizzy. As she wove in and out of consciousness, she wondered vaguely what life as a slave would be like. Then exhaustion took over, and she pitched forward.

  Her mind seemed to hover at the top of the tent as she felt hands lifting her and laying her down. Something heavy closed out the dim light and noise from the dance. She was asleep too soon to feel the six-legged creatures that shared her bed. She woke up late the next morning to the shrieks and screams of children’s laughter.

  SUMMER

  Train up a child in the way he should go:

  And when he is old, he will not depart from it.

  Proverbs 22:6

  CHAPTER 6

  Cynthia lay under the heavy, scratchy robe, listening to the sounds outside the lodge. For a brief moment she thought she was under the old blue comforter and had been allowed to sleep far past the usual time. Her cousins were already up and playing in the compound outside. She could hear dogs barking and horses thudding by. Men and women laughed as they went about their morning chores. Above the everyday morning sounds the shrieks of children at play rose again. There were only two things wrong. There were no chickens clucking, and she couldn’t understand any of the words that filtered, muffled, through the hide wall next to her head.