Come Sundown (7 page)

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Authors: Mike Blakely

BOOK: Come Sundown
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I STAYED WITH William for two days, helping him hang the heavy wooden doors his men had built for the many rooms that faced in toward the trading post's courtyard. I was ready to get back to the Comanches with the whiskey, but knew I should rest my stock for a couple of days. Besides, I liked building things with my hands, and I felt good about spending the time with William.
On the third morning, I woke up early and donned my Indian attire—moccasins, leggings, and buckskin shirt. I parted my hair in the middle, Comanche style, and braided both sides. I stuck an eagle feather in the hair pulled tight at the back of my head, and wrapped a warm blanket about my shoulders. I packed my mules with help from the Mexican workers, and made ready to leave.
“I'll follow tomorrow with the trade wagons,” William said. “I need to get away from here for a while.”
“I'll tell the Comanches you're coming. They'll be honored.”
“Mind what Kit and John Hatcher taught you.”
“I'll be careful. I'll make cold camps all the way to the Canadian.”
We shook hands and I rode, trailing my mules. As I passed through the Cheyenne village, I happened to see little Charlie Bent running among the tipis ahead of me, his bow in hand. I began to fear a re-creation of his sneak attack of three days before. But when I came near to his hiding place behind a deer hide that was stretched upright on a platform, I caught his eye, and saw no arrow aiming my way. I attributed this at first to the thrashing his father had given him for the last attack. Then it dawned on me that perhaps he was letting me pass unmolested now because I wore the dress of an Indian.
“I'll see you again, Charlie,” I said, stopping Major to speak with the boy.
He did not reply.
“Stavasevo-matse,”
I said, repeating the farewell in Cheyenne.
“Stavasevo-matse.”
The boy stepped out from behind the deerskin.
“Mind your mother and father.”
His boyish face looked far too serious. His reply came in Cheyenne: “I mind my mother.” Then he ran away.
A
fter ten days of hard travel, I neared the Crossing on the Canadian River. The only humans I had seen during the trip were the members of a distant party of mounted Indians, whom I avoided. I had spent my nights in camp those ten days fastening iron arrow points and split turkey feathers onto my dogwood shafts with sinew stripped from the backstrap of a deer I had killed on the Arkansas. Now my bow and arrows were finished, and I looked forward to showing them to Burnt Belly for his approval, for I had given them a final straightening with the grooved rock the old shaman had loaned to me.
As I approached the canyon rim that would overlook the Comanche
village, I arranged the bow and new arrows in the quiver slung across my back. Major knew we were close to home, and stepped lively as we approached the Canadian breaks. I made him stop at the rim, so I could take in the view and judge the attitude of things in camp.
I looked for my own lodge first, and saw it standing where it had been when I left, two moons ago. The pole had fallen off one of the wind flaps, and I wondered why Hidden Water hadn't put it back. I was sure she hadn't done much housekeeping since I had been gone. Still, thoughts of my reunion with her had begun to stir within, and I looked forward to this night in our lodge.
Scanning the area downstream, I noticed that the Nokonis had vanished. This did not surprise me. They had come this far north to hunt buffalo and trade with the Quahadis, but I knew they would be anxious to get back to their warmer ranges away down toward the Texas settlements.
I lingered on the rim for another minute or two, looking over the beautiful Canadian River Valley that widened here at the Crossing. Again, I felt overwhelmed by a sense of belonging. This place was home—a rich basin that collected water, sunshine, and fertile silt from past floods and converted them into graze for buffalo, browse for deer, and multitudinous varieties of seeds and fruits that fed still more species of animals. Here prairies intermingled with wooded draws, creating the edges of timber that provided habitat for thousands of wild turkeys. Here the beaver dams collected running water into pools that drew flocks of migrating ducks, geese, swans, cranes, and even pelicans. Fish darted in the streams, ranging from flashy perch no larger than a child's hand to lumbering catfish the size of a grown man's leg. Here, a man with wits and ammunition, or even a wooden club and a set of snares, could eat year-round.
Every day provided a different glimpse of nature's magnificence. Bears lumbered. Coyotes skulked. Wolves prowled. Mountain lions stalked upon herds of fleet antelope. Eagles swooped and snagged fish from the river's surface. Diving hawks scattered coveys of quail. Owls flew silently along the edges of the night. And then the buffalo would come. The Crossing funneled them here, where they could migrate with
ease over the mischievous Canadian. They would pour into this valley for days, converting nutritious grass into fertile dung, then they would disappear for months or even years before returning to graze on the replenished grasses.
It was ironic that I had to carry whiskey here to preserve this place as a peaceful campground. But I knew from experience that if I did not bring the liquor, and control its consumption, someone else who cared far less for the place or the souls who called it home would bring enough cursed alcohol here to destroy the entire Comanche nation. And so it fell to me—a man who had never even gotten drunk—to supply the Indians with intoxicating drink. Well, if I had to do it, I might as well do it in style.
Turning Major around to the first of my two mules, I untied my deerskin violin case from the pack saddle, and carefully pulled out the Stradivarius and its bow. I took a few moments to tune by ear, then placed the chinpiece against my jaw. I could control my mount with leg cues, in the Comanche way, so I let the reins remain draped over Major's neck, and told him to step off the rim, following the well-worn trail into the valley.
Within seconds, a young warrior guarding the ponies had spotted me, and shouted across the valley. The news traveled quickly by word of mouth through the village, and excited men and women began to step from their lodges and gravitate toward the northern side of the camp. I played an old sailing song I had learned years before, crossing the Atlantic on a square-rigger. The song was called “The Girls Around Cape Horn” and it provided just the jaunty mood I needed to announce my arrival home.
When I reached the edge of the village, warriors began to hoot their battle cries, and the whole camp came to life. I looked for Hidden Water. She usually liked to greet me when I arrived like this—the center of attention and the bringer of celebration. But as yet I could not find her in the crowd that grew around me. I played and smiled and rode at a jaunty trot, arriving in front of Chief Shaved Head's lodge, where I would unload the whiskey. I ended “The Girls Around Cape Horn” with a flourish and sprang from Major to receive the Comanche
cheer of “Yee-yee-yee-yee-yee-yee-yee!” Shaved Head came out of his lodge to greet me and to see how much whiskey I had brought. He looked as though he had been napping in his tipi.
By now I expected Hidden Water to be at my side, but she had not arrived. I could sense some unspoken amusement from the crowd, but it was not considered dignified to act concerned over a missing wife, so I carried on with my chores, untying the hitches that held the whiskey kegs on the mules. I asked a few promising young braves to take hold of the kegs as I untied them so they would not drop to the ground and burst.
Still, Hidden Water had not come to me.
As I went to unpack the second mule, the old shaman, Burnt Belly, came to my side. Stepping close to me, he said in a low voice, “Do not ask about her. I will tell you in time.”
I sensed he had done this to save me some kind of embarrassment. I guessed that Hidden Water had done something to shame me, so I determined to act as if I didn't even notice her absence until Burnt Belly could inform me. Still, I couldn't help but wonder: Why wasn't she here? Was she hiding? Had she left? With whom?
“Aho,”
I said, as if Burnt Belly had merely come to greet me. “I have brought you the medicine you wanted, grandfather.” I took a small flask of good store-bought whiskey from my saddlebag and handed it to the old man. He smiled and held the flask aloft for everyone to see.
“Yee-yee-yee-yee-yee-yee-yee!” sang the crowd.
“Listen,” I said, raising my hands. “I have brought the white man's whiskey so that my people will celebrate my return. I will bargain with any man who wishes to have some. Bring your best ponies, and your finest robes to trade. But do not trade everything you have. In three sleeps, Owl Man will come with wagons loaded with all the things you warriors need, and all the things your women want. There will be kettles, knives, axes, and hoop iron for arrow points. There will be cloth and beads and ribbons. Blankets and shirts and coats. There will be gunpowder and salt and tobacco. Sugar and honey. Looking glasses and red ocher to paint your faces. This is the time to be happy. First, we will feast. Then you will all drink!”
The warriors rent the air with their wild screams. Chief
Shaved Head took charge of the whiskey barrels, having the young warriors line them up on the ground in front of his lodge door. Now it was time for me to go to work. The warriors formed a line, starting with the most decorated men. My friend Kills Something stood fifth in this line. Though older men fell in behind him, he had earned his place as one of the elite, and would someday become a great leader if he survived another few years of raiding and fighting. All of the men in line were considered leaders of their families, and would bargain not just for themselves, but for their brothers, fathers, sons, nephews, and in-laws. The first in line, of course, was Chief Shaved Head.
Shaved Head's appearance was unusual among Comanches because he actually shaved one side of his head as instructed in a vision he had received. This produced a distinctive scalp that his enemies forever sought to separate from his skull. That scalp was likely to make a fine trophy someday for some Apache, Pawnee, Mexican, Texan, or American, for Shaved Head did not intend to die with gray hair.
I placed a large metal cup on top of one of the barrels. This would be the unit of measurement for our bargaining.
“I will have ten cups,” Shaved Head said, holding up ten fingers.
My eyes widened in surprise, for though he was chief, his family was rather small, and that was a lot of whiskey for just a few people. I guessed that he was planning on sharing the whiskey with his three wives. “What will you trade?”
“Ponies.”
“How many?”
“Ten cups. Ten ponies.”
I smiled. Bargaining with Comanches was easy as long as you didn't get greedy with them. A white man would make a low offer and be prepared to bargain upward. This was shameful in the Comanche culture. The Comanches believed a man should flaunt his wealth. Moreover, he should exhibit his complete confidence in acquiring new wealth. Shaved Head was a proud man. He would not think of making a trifling offer in front of his whole camp.
I nodded at his bargain. “A pony for each cup is a very good offer, and more than I expected. But you are a great chief who will get more ponies on the next raid.”
“If I do not, it is because I will die carrying battle to our enemies.”
“I only need to know which ten ponies to take from your herd.”
Shaved Head looked away from me as if to dismiss the triviality of the suggestion. “You pick. My nephew holds my herd downstream, where there is good grass. I have over three hundred horses. You may take any ten you like.”
I offered my hand to seal the deal—a tradition the Comanches had learned from Europeans, and one they understood represented a covenant of personal honor.
“Wife!” Shaved Head turned toward his wife's tipi, where she stood at the opening. “Pour the water out of my best canteen—the one you made from the bladder of the buffalo I killed on the last hunt. I will fill it soon with firewater!”
The warriors sent their war cries skyward and the next man stepped up to make his bargain. Shaved Head would remember how many cups he had bargained for, and would get them later. But before the drinking started, every man would have a chance to make a whiskey deal. Then there would be a feast. Then, and only then, would the headmen bring their vessels around to the kegs to fill them. By this time, I would be camped somewhere down the valley to keep away from the drunken revelry, for a white man—even one considered an adopted member of the tribe—was a tempting target for a drunken Comanche. Hopefully Hidden Water would be in camp with me, though she still had not shown herself. I was anxious to get my whiskey trading done so Burnt Belly could tell me what had happened with her.
The next warrior was named Mexican Horse. He stepped forward and said, “Five cups.”
“What will you trade?”
“Three buffalo robes, and a lodge pole for your wind flap. There is something wrong with the one that was there, for it has fallen off and no one has put it back.”
The crowd murmured behind Mexican Horse, and I knew he was trying to embarrass me because my wife had not taken care of my lodge while I was gone. This, too, was the Comanche way. A weakness or shortcoming of any sort was pointed out instead of politely overlooked. Perhaps you think you've seen small towns where everyone knows everyone else's business. You should try living in a Comanche camp. Privacy is as thin as the buffalo-hide walls of the lodges. If you have a problem, you deal with it immediately or suffer the ongoing ridicule of your neighbors.
My trading career with this village would have been over had I let Mexican Horse get away with embarrassing me, so I met him head-on. “If you have something to say about my lodge, say it plainly,” I insisted. “I have been away getting the trade goods the elders wanted, and I haven't been lying around camp looking up at my neighbors' wind flaps. Tell me what you mean by offering me a lodge pole.”
This surprised Mexican Horse a little, but he wasn't about to back down now. “The pole for your wind flap lies on the ground because your wife has left your lodge. She went south with a warrior from the Nokonis.”
This was a hell of a way to learn that my so-called wife had run off with another man, but I knew better than to let any show of emotion cross my face. “The concerns of this camp are more important than any woman who runs away from it,” I announced. “First I will make the deals the elders have asked me to make for the whiskey. Then I will handle my own problems. I have no use for your lodge pole. What else do you have to offer?”
“A pony and a mule,” Mexican Horse said. “You can ride the pony to the Nokonis and bring your wife back on the mule.”
The people of the village burst into laughter.
“If I do not bring her back, that mule will be loaded with robes and other valuable things that are worth more than the woman. Right now I do not care if she stays with the Nokonis, as long as the man who took her pays me well for her.”
Mexican Horse started to say something else, but Kills Something spoke up from behind him: “Enough about that woman.” This was a remarkable thing for him to say, for Hidden Water was Kills Something's sister. “First we feast and
drink. Then I will go with Plenty Man to deal with that runaway woman and see that he gets her back, or gets what he wants in trade for her.”

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