Comanche (A J.T. Edson Western Book 1) Read online

  Once more the people scattered, staring at Ysabel tearing his grulla between the tepees with Raccoon Talker clinging precariously behind him. On approaching the front of the birth-tepee, he brought the horse to a rump-scraping halt. Even before the animal stopped, Raccoon Talker slipped from its back and ran into the tepee. Leaping down, Ysabel started to follow the woman, but Long Walker caught his arm in a vice-like grasp and halted him.

  ‘You must not go in, Ysabel,’ the chief warned. ‘It is woman’s work. You can do nothing and it might bring bad medicine for you to try.’

  Only by exercising all his will-power did Ysabel fight down his inclination to hurl the older man aside and burst into the tepee. Commonsense though told him that he could do nothing; and might even make matters worse with his presence. Raven Head might have a French-Creole mother, but was born and raised a Comanche. She firmly believed in good and bad medicine and it might worsen her condition if she saw him breaking the beliefs of her people.

  Swinging away from the tepee, he walked to his horse and halted at its side. Silence fell on the assembled crowd, every eye fixed on the closed door of the tepee. Almost fifteen minutes dragged by, the longest Sam Ysabel could ever remember. Then a wail, soul-tearing in its mournful context, rose from the tepee. A low cry broke from the lips of Raven Head’s mother and her voice joined that which sounded from the tepee. Woman after woman took up the chant, doleful, wordless, but filled with misery and suffering. It was the death chant of the Pehnane.

  Ysabel started towards the tepee, his face drawn into harsh savage lines. Lifting the flap, Raccoon Talker stepped out to meet the advancing man.

  ‘What happened?’ he demanded, hoping against hope.

  ‘She— She is dead.’ Raccoon Talker answered, shoulders drooping. ‘It was something that I—’

  Without waiting to hear more, Ysabel thrust by her and entered the tepee. He did not even glance at the two wailing women who hovered in the background as he flung himself to the bed. Dropping to his knees, he looked down at and barely recognized the agony-distorted, blood-smeared face of his wife. Gently he lifted the still shape, cradling it in his arms and holding it to him as if to try to return its life by some means.

  Ysabel belonged to that free-ranging breed of pioneers who opened up the West and paved the way for the more permanent citizens to follow. Always wishing to see what lay beyond the next hill, avoiding as much as possible the ever-advancing flow of settlers, his type of man sought for new land where they might live away their rich, free lives. Coming to Texas originally with a party of wild-horse hunters, Ysabel found it to be a land which met all his requirements. To make a home beyond the fringe of Mexican-held towns called for the friendship of the Indians and Ysabel had succeeded in gaining acceptance among the Comanche, greatest tribe of all. Some of his kind took an Indian wife as a convenience, a means to cement their friendship, discarding her when her usefulness ended. Not so Ysabel. He loved Raven Head and aimed to stay true to her. That made his grief at her death all the worse.

  An irritatingly persistent sound cut into Ysabel’s grief and after a moment he recognized it for what it was. Lowering his wife’s body to the bed, he rose and crossed to where the baby lay in its cradleboard. For a moment anger rose in Ysabel. Then he realized that he could not blame the baby for its mother’s death. Raven Head would not even have wished him to start thinking such a thought. With his mother dead, some other means of feeding Loncey must be arranged. Ysabel ran his tongue tip across his dry lips and turned his eyes to Raccoon Talker.

  ‘Care for the child,’ he said. ‘I’ll send women to—her.’

  Among the Comanches to mention a dead person by name had always been regarded as a sign of disrespect and Ysabel went along with the tradition. Strangely, it helped ease the pain and grief not to say Raven Head’s name.

  ‘I will do what I can,’ Raccoon Talker promised.

  ‘See the horse herd guard, tell him to give you the pick of the pack horses I brought in.’

  With that, Ysabel walked from the tepee. The gift served to show Raccoon Talker that he did not hold her responsible for Raven Head’s death. Having attended to the medicine woman, Ysabel knew he must find some means of feeding his son—and do it quickly.

  Chapter Two – Death For A Poor Loser

  Already the women of the immediate family circle had begun their mourning. Wailing their grief all the time, they returned to their tepees where they stripped off their clothes and donned rags or skin aprons. The two women attending the child-birth did not belong to Long Walker’s family and so could not prepare the body for burial. That task fell upon Raven Head’s weeping mother and two younger sisters. Dressed in their mourning clothing, they made for the birth-tepee to begin their work.

  Showing typical respect, the crowd faded off in silence. Long Walker laid his hand on Ysabel’s sleeve and turned a grief-scarred face to the big white man. Neither of them spoke, they did not need words to express their feelings. Not until the women entered the tepee did Ysabel break his silence.

  ‘We have to do something about feeding the baby,’ he said.

  ‘We do,’ agreed Long Walker. ‘But how—?’

  ‘Wepitapu’ni’s second wife has a son almost weaned,’ Raccoon Talker put in, coming from the tepee. ‘He may let you put the baby to her.’

  ‘He might at that,’ drawled Ysabel. ‘Let’s go see him, Long Walker.’

  Wepitapu’ni, War Club, belonged to the Dog Soldier lodge and most probably would be willing to help out a fellow member. So after telling one of the women to inform his wife of their intentions, Long Walker went with Ysabel to the man’s group of tepees. Being a successful warrior, War Club no longer housed all his family under one roof. Instead he supplied each of his four wives with a tepee, an arrangement which greatly added to their prestige in the village and met with their hearty approval.

  Rising from her place by the family’s fire, War Club’s pairaivo greeted the two men politely and made the customary offer of a meal. Although all the wives gathered by the fire, there did not appear to be any sign of their husband. Hearing the wailing from the other side of the camp, and knowing the event expected by Ysabel that day, the pairaivo could guess at the reason for the visit. Her eyes went to Many Brothers, the second wife.

  ‘Where is Wepitapu’ni?’ asked Long Walker after courteously refusing the offered meal.

  ‘At the Owl lodge camp, playing “Hands”,’ the woman replied. Although the ruler of the family in her husband’s absence, the pairaivo did not have the authority to make such an important decision as needed by Ysabel, so the two men thanked her and returned to Long Walker’s tepees. Collecting their horses—like the cowhands who would one day inherit their range, the Comanche never walked when they could ride—the two men set off towards that section of the village which housed the Owl lodge’s members.

  In a life that saw much violence and danger, the Comanche lost most of their fear of death. However, they still clung to the old belief that the dead should be buried as soon as possible. So Raven Head’s mother and two younger sisters wasted no time and did not allow their continued mourning to prevent them making the necessary arrangements.

  Working swiftly, so as to be done before stiffness set into the body, the women bathed the naked corpse. They had already collected Raven Head’s favorite clothing in which to dress the corpse and several of her friends brought along small items of jewelry or decoration to be added to her final raiment. With the body covered, vermilion stain was used to coat the face and its eyes sealed over by application of red clay. Then the women bent Raven Head’s legs with her knee up against her chest and bowed her head upon the knees, holding the position by binding the body with a rope. After that, they set the body on a blanket to await Ysabel’s return. In the period of waiting, such of Raven Head’s relations and friends who wished might enter the tepee and pay their last respects.

  With the work attended to, Raven Head’s mother covered her face with black paint
, wailing, moaning and sobbing all the while. Showing equal grief, the dead girl’s sisters gashed themselves upon the arms and legs, letting the blood flow unheeded. Outside the tepee women joined in the funeral dirges and from inside came the wailing of the new-born, motherless baby.

  Once beyond the sound of mourning, a different kind of music reached Ysabel and Long Walker’s ears. Passing through the Owl lodge camp, the two headed in the direction of the music. At any other time they would have enjoyed hearing the deep-throated chanting of male voices, knowing that it heralded a pleasant and, sometimes, profitable diversion. Some quarter of a mile from the tepees, in a clearing at the foot of a hollow, several warriors and tsukup gathered to watch, take part in, or gamble on a game of ‘Hands’.

  Leaving their horses with the others at the head of the hollow’s slope, Ysabel and Long Walker made their way on foot towards the crowd. From what they could see, their arrival coincided with a crucial moment in the game. It also became obvious that the man they wished to see took a major part in the game and must not be interrupted right then.

  A dozen men sat facing each other in two lines. Silent concentration showed on the faces of the men at the left as they watched War Club, seated in the right-side line, go through the time-honored ritual of the game.

  Basically ‘Hands’ was a very simple game, its object being for one team to win the twenty-one tally sticks placed between them at the start. To win a stick, a player concealed a pebble in either hand and one of the opposing team must then guess which hand held it. Should the guesser prove wrong, his side lost a stick and the winning team retained possession of the pebble. If a correct guess was made, the guesser’s team received the stick and took over the pebble. Each team bet, as did the spectators, upon the result of each individual guess and also on which team won all the sticks first. Being inveterate gamblers, the men present wagered high and tension mounted as the number of sticks before one team or the other grew or shrank depending on the result of the guessing.

  At the time Ysabel and Long Walker arrived, the fate of that particular game hung in the balance. Already twenty of the sticks lay before War Club’s team and he had possession of the stone. Singing the gambling song with full-throated vigor, beating a rhythm with the palm of the hand on a parfleche bag, or a stick upon the ground, the remainder of the possessing team attempted to distract their opponents. While his teammates sang and drummed. War Club made gestures and passes with his hands in time to the music. His aim was to confuse the guesser and prevent him from knowing in which palm the pebble finally came to rest.

  Seated facing War Club, a scowling, surly-faced Owl lodge brave called Bitter Root watched the moving hands with savage concentration. The fate of the game hung balanced upon Bitter Root’s next guess. Already he labored under the disadvantage of having cost his side a stick by fumbling and dropping the pebble while passing it from hand to hand, thereby forfeiting the point. Since that time his side failed to guess correctly and regain possession of the pebble. With a considerable stake involved, Bitter Root had no intention of failing through lack of concentration and attention.

  Suddenly the singing and drumming ended. Extending his clenched fists, knuckles upwards, in Bitter Root’s direction, War Club requested that the other make a choice. Slowly Bitter Root raised his right hand, moved it towards War Club’s fists. All the time, he watched the other man’s face, searching for some hint as to which fist gripped the hidden pebble.

  Much as Sam Ysabel wanted to discuss his business with War Club, he knew he must not interrupt the game. While Ysabel and War Club belonged to the same lodge, and had shared danger upon two raids into Mexico, the Pehnane would take serious offence at having his concentration spoiled. Yet the matter entailed some urgency, for the newly-born Loncey needed food. Of course, if Bitter Root made the wrong selection there would be no need to worry. Should he pick correctly, the game might continue for a considerable time. All too well Ysabel knew how the fortunes of a game of ‘Hands’ swung back and forwards. While the uncertainty contributed a major portion of the game’s fascination, Ysabel had no wish to be delayed as the play see-sawed back and forth indefinitely. Knowing his explosive nature, Ysabel wondered if he could hold himself in check for much longer.

  Having so much at stake, Bitter Root did not rush his decision. He never took his eyes from War Club’s impassive face, trying to read some clue. At the same time Bitter Root gave rapid thought to War Club’s previous handling of the pebble. If he could recognize a pattern in the other’s earlier moves, it might help the decision. Yet, try as he might, Bitter Root failed to pick up any thread. An old hand at the game, War Club varied his selection, sometimes offering the pebble in one hand on successive turns, on other occasions changing hands. Nor did he allow his face to show emotion. A keen-eyed guesser could read much in his opponent’s face and might notice a flicker of concern when moving his finger as if to touch the hand holding the pebble.

  Bitter Root’s finger wavered between War Club’s right and left fist, but no decision was made until actual contact be made. A man could learn much by pretending to have reached a decision and moving the finger towards one fist. Just a faint show of concern, or jubilation, could tell its story. However, he could read nothing and his annoyance grew.

  Reaching a decision, Bitter Root laid his finger upon War Club’s right fist. Instantly a broad grin came to the Dog Soldier’s face and he opened his hand to show an empty palm. As whoops of delight rose from his supporters, mingling with Bitter Root’s savage ejaculation and the groans of those who bet on the losing team. War Club turned over his left hand and exposed the pebble gripped in it.

  Singing the special victory song, War Club’s supporters rose and prepared to gather their winnings from the stake-holders. With the exception of Bitter Root, all the losers took defeat in good part. Personal property, with certain exceptions such as weapons or a prized horse, meant little to a Comanche brave. If he lost, he could always go out raiding and obtain more. Smarting under the stigma of being the one responsible for the losses, Bitter Root took a less tolerant view of the matter. Never the most amiable of men, his name had a firm foundation in his character, Bitter Root looked for someone on whom he might vent his anger.

  Accepting the congratulations from all sides, War Club strolled to where Sam Ysabel and Long Walker passed through the crowd.

  ‘Are you joining the next game, Ysabel?’ he asked, raising a hand in greeting. ‘We will be starting again soon.’

  ‘I’m not playing,’ Ysabel replied. ‘Can I talk with you before you start, Wepitapu’ni?’

  Suddenly War Club realized that this was the day that Raven Head expected her child. He also became aware of the grief lines on the two men’s faces and could guess at its cause. Thinking quickly, War Club came up with one explanation for the men’s presence; the right one as it proved.

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  Before the three men could withdraw from the noisy crowd, Bitter Root came slouching in their direction.

  ‘Hey you, War Club!’ he called arrogantly. ‘We are about to play another game. What do you want me to bet against the four horses you won from me?’

  ‘Make me an offer,’ answered War Club. ‘But first my lodge brother, Ysabel, wants words with me.’

  Such a statement given to most Pehnane braves would have been sufficient to cause a withdrawal until the other’s private business was completed. By tradition a brave-heart warrior should be polite, within certain bounds, generous and considerate of other members of the band. Bitter Root lacked those qualities. Instead of standing back and allowing War Club to speak with Ysabel, he remained close by, his surly face creased in a scowl. The four horses lost on the game of ‘Hands’ formed his highly-prized war string, specially trained for the exacting business of long distance raiding, and he hated the thought of parting with them.

  Ignoring Bitter Root, a man he cordially disliked, Sam Ysabel told War Club what he wanted. Without wasting any time, or givin
g a thought to how he might profit in the matter, War Club gave his agreement that Many Brothers acted as wet-nurse to the motherless baby.

  ‘Come, brother,’ the Dog Soldier said. We will go to my tepee and tell Many Brothers to prepare herself. Grey Foot, my pairaivo will help her.’

  ‘You won’t have any time to go and be back before the start of the next game,’ Bitter Root objected.

  ‘Then I’ll have to miss it,’ War Club snapped back, angry at the intrusion into a purely personal and private matter.

  ‘You have to stay, play and give me a chance to win back my horses!’ shouted Bitter Root, bringing every eye to him.

  Among the Comanches, quitting while ahead carried no stigma of poor sportsmanship. So only Bitter Root’s surly nature—and possibly a dislike of Sam Ysabel—caused his insistence on being given a chance to win back the horses. Although a low mutter of disapproval rose from the crowd at Bitter Root’s shouted words, he ignored the condemnation. Being a name warrior, rich and successful by Pehnane standards, he cared little for public opinion and determined to enforce his will upon the other man.

  Against a young brave, or a man about to become tsukup, Bitter Root’s attitude might have caused compliance to his demands. However, War Club was also a known warrior, one of the recklessly brave men who carried the war lance into battle instead of using a bow. Such a man did not lightly yield to demands made in an offensive tone and manner. Swinging away from Bitter Root as if the man had not spoken, War Club looked at Sam Ysabel and Long Walker.

  ‘Come, we will see my women.’

  An awful fury creased Bitter Root’s face at the other’s rejection. Snatching the knife from his belt, he gave a snarl of rage and lunged towards the two men. The snarl proved to be a bad mistake, for it gave warning to his intended victims. Wishing to avoid trouble, Sam Ysabel acted in the only manner possible. Fast as a striking rattlesnake, he pivoted around to meet Bitter Root’s charge. Out swung Ysabel’s left hand, striking Bitter Root’s knife wrist and deflecting the blade. In a continuation of the same move, Ysabel lashed the back of the hand up and across the Indian’s face. The blow did not land lightly and Ysabel packed considerable strength in his powerful frame. Bitter Root shot aside under the force of the blow, dropping his knife and crashing to the ground.