Grayfox (13 page)

The day after our talk about roots, we again heard hoofbeats approaching. After so many days alone out under the sky, we seemed to be running into people everywhere!

We were out in the open, and even if we'd wanted to hide, we'd never been able to. They were galloping straight toward us. Before we even had the chance to think about what to do, suddenly we found ourselves surrounded by half a dozen Paiutes on their pinto ponies, arrow tips pointed straight toward us.

Hawk remained calm. At least on the outside. I was scared to death!

One of them yelled something at him. It sounded like a command.

Hawk looked over at me. “He says we're to come with them,” It was late in the day, only an hour or two before dusk.

“What for?” I asked.

“He didn't say. But I have the feeling we'd better do what he says or those arrows may not feel too good.”

“How did they know where to find us?”

“That's the part that worries me,” said Hawk, beginning to move slowly toward our mules, and motioning me to follow. “I didn't know they had me so kept track of. They rode up like they knew exactly where we'd be.”

“That's not such a pleasant thought,” I said.

“Downright unpleasant,” answered Hawk. “I thought I was the one keeping track of
their
movements. Makes me wonder why they've kept me alive all this time.”

“Maybe they're not as dangerous as people think.”

Hawk nodded his head with a solemn expression. I couldn't read his thoughts.

We mounted our horses, and the next minute we were heading off across the plain amid the Paiutes, some ahead, some behind us. All I could think of was that they were going to kill us or boil us alive
or skin us and eat us or something! Why hadn't they just put arrows through us and been done with it!

After a rapid ride of fifteen or twenty minutes we slowed, and for the rest of the way, climbing up into some rugged hills, we went at a slower pace. They didn't seem to mind us talking, and as we went side by side, Hawk and I had a long conversation. Probably the thought of dying made both of us wonder what we were about to face.

As we rode along, I sure wasn't thinking about anything more than whether I was going to live through the night.

“Let me ask you a question, Zack,” said Hawk as we rode. “What do you figure makes a fellow a man?”

I thought a long time.

“That's a mighty big question,” I answered finally.

“You and I been together a good long while,” said Hawk. “I figure you're about ready for me to ask it.”

“Why, you been waiting to ask me that all this time?”

“Not directly. Watching'd be more like it.”

“Watching for what?”

“To see how you was absorbing everything, to see how you was learning to see the inside of things. Especially to see how you was learning to see inside yourself.”

“And you figure I'm learning to see that way?”

“Yeah, I do, Zack. I figure you're seeing a heap of things different than you maybe once did. You're a good learner. That's why I figure you're about ready to ask yourself that important question. So what
do
you figure makes a fellow a man?”

I was quiet for a while, thinking to myself.

“Courage, I reckon,” I said after a long quiet spell. “That'd be one thing.”

“Courage—that's good,” replied Hawk thoughtfully. “I reckon that's part of it. But what do you mean by courage—never being afraid, doing brave things, being tougher than the next guy? What do you think courage is?”

“I guess maybe a little of all those things,” I said. “Though I reckon a man's got a right to be afraid once in a while, just so long as he can be brave in the middle of it.”

The instant the words were out of my mouth I remembered Pa telling me something like that when Buck Krebbs took Becky and
we had to go after him. It surprised me to think of Pa and Hawk telling me the same thing.

“Yep, I think you're right there,” Hawk continued. “So you figure it's all right to be afraid, as long as it doesn't keep you from being courageous?”

“I reckon that's something like it, as long as you're not afraid too much. You ever afraid, Hawk?”

“'Course I'm afraid—I've told you that. Maybe even more'n you figure a man oughta be. Only a fool's never afraid. Sometimes it takes a man with good sense to know when he
ought
to be afraid!”

“I guess I never thought about that part of it.”

“What else about courage? You think it means doing brave things?”

“Seems like it would.”

“What kind of brave things?”

“You know, the kind of things that most folks'd be afraid to do.”

“Daring exploits, eh, Zack? Fighting the dragon to save the village and the princess!”

We both laughed, but I knew Hawk was still waiting for an answer.

“Something like that,” I said, “but not dragons.”

“What, then? Facing a charging Indian who's trying to kill you, shooting a rattlesnake, saving someone in danger, going up with your fists against a bully, riding across a desert to help a stranded settler, fighting in a war?”

“Yeah, all that kind of stuff.”

“Going up against something bigger than yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Fighting it, conquering it, braving the fearsome enemy and winning the battle—that's what courage is?”

“Hmm . . . now that you mention it, I don't suppose you'd necessarily have to win. Lot of brave men have done lots of courageous things and died in the trying.”

“So it's just having the courage to face the enemy . . . being brave, being strong, whatever the outcome?”

“Yeah, maybe that's it. Not being a coward no matter what the odds.”

“All right. So having courage and being brave to face danger, even if you're afraid, is part of what it takes to be a man—what else?”

Again I thought for a while. I knew Hawk was content to wait as long as it took.

“Being able to take care of yourself, maybe,” I ventured after a couple of minutes. “Not necessarily when there's any big danger around, but the rest of the time.”

“Being able to be independent?”

“I reckon something like that.”

“Not needing anybody's help?”

I nodded.

“Not needing anyone else?”

“I'm not saying you gotta be a hermit—”

“A loner like me,” Hawk put in with a wink.

“Yeah. I ain't saying there's anything wrong with how you live, but a man doesn't
have
to do that to be a man. But still he ought to be able to take care of himself.”

“Self-reliant?”

“That's something like it. A man oughta be able to get along with people, but he shouldn't have to depend on them for everything. That's part of what growing up is, ain't it—learning to stand on your own two feet and fend for yourself?”

“I'm asking you,” said Hawk with a smile.

“Okay, then I'm saying it—a man ought to be able to take care of himself.”

“So, courageous and self-reliant—what else? What kind of
person
does it take to be a man—down inside?”

“I don't get your meaning.”

“Okay, let me say it like this.” Hawk looked away a minute, thinking, then turned back to me. “Should a man be a
thinker,
” he said, “to be a full-fledged
man
?”

“A thinker?” I repeated.

“Yep, a thinker. Should a man use his head to prove what he's made of—or his hands?”

“Well . . . both,” I said.

“He ought to be able to use his head?”

I nodded. “Nobody wants to be a fool. You gotta know how to use your brains.”

“All right, let's say I put two men in front of you. Jake's a tough hombre who can ride any horse alive, broken or not. He's quick on the draw and can shoot a jack rabbit from a hundred yards from the back of a horse at a full gallop. Cross him, and you'll wind up
with a fist in your mouth. Jake's killed several men, and's not afraid of any man or beast alive. He's as tough a customer as they come.

“Talk about taking care of himself—Jake's been on his own since he was eleven. And courage? Why, he's as brave as they come. He's no thinker. He never reads books. He can barely read at all. Ideas and thoughts and all the kind of stuff you and I talk about, none of that would interest Jake in the least. He proves what kind of stuff he's made of with his hands and fists and muscles every day, but his head never really gets involved—at least not the
inside
of his head. He's a good hard worker too, and there's nobody you'd want on a ranch more'n Jake if you could get him.”

“Sounds like Demming. Is it him you're talking about?”

Hawk paused, looked away again, and took in a deep breath.

“Nope, they're a lot alike, but that's not who I mean.”

“You said two,” I prompted.

“Yep,” said Hawk, glancing quickly back toward me. “The other feller is completely different—night and day different than Jake. His name's Mr. Fenwick. He's a music professor and makes his living teaching his students about the history of music and about how to play musical instruments. He's kind to everyone he meets, and he really cares about his students. He's a short man who wears glasses, and he
is
a thinker. He reads all the time and thinks about things other than music. He's especially interested in spiritual things and thinks about God a lot. That's why he loves music—because he believes that God made music. But except for playing musical instruments, Mr. Fenwick can't do a thing with his hands. He shows what kind of stuff he's made of with what's
inside
his head. He's never been in a fight in his life, has never held a gun, and hasn't ever faced the kind of danger that comes across Jake's path nearly every day.

“Now, Zack, which of these two would you say is the most thoroughly a
man
?”

Hawk eyed me intently.

“I see what you mean,” I said. “It's not easy to say without knowing them both. It
could
be that the fellow called Fenwick is brave and courageous too.”

“Right you are, Zack. But you wouldn't think that about him right off. And it could be that all Jake's toughness is just to hide the fact that deep inside he's timid and afraid.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Happens all the time,” said Hawk. “Folks aren't always what they appear on the surface. That's why I keep telling you always to look to the
inside
—with people most of all.”

We rode along a while further without saying anything.

“After all this, ain't you gonna tell me what you think it takes to make a man?” I asked finally.

“No, I figure you got plenty to think about for one day. Besides, we got enough problems staring us in the face to keep us busy with other things. I have the feeling we're about to find out which of the two kinds the men in this pack are.”

I looked up. There was a camp up ahead.

“Will you tell me sometime?”

“I don't know. If you want me to.”

“I do.”

“Then maybe I'll tell you . . . if we live long enough!”

It was getting dark by the time we arrived in the Paiute camp. One of the first people we saw was the half-breed. The hateful look on his face as we rode up made me shiver clean through, even more than the thoughts I'd been having the whole ride about getting skinned alive by the Paiutes.

He glared at us like
we
was the ones that had wounded him. I suppose I should have been glad he was recovered, because he sure did look strong again, but that wasn't really the first thing that came into my mind when he looked at us.

I wondered how long he'd been here and if Demming was still after him now that he was in the company of the whole tribe—if Demming even knew where he was.

But I didn't have too much time to think about what the man called Tranter might do to us, because the next minute we were being yanked off the mules and half dragged along through the camp. Then we were standing in front of a powerful-looking Paiute, clearly a chief of some sort. Hawk told me he was the young Winnemucca.

He was dark and weathered, just like the half-breed, and dressed mostly with cloth attire, but with some small skins and feathers about him too. I couldn't tell his age. The main thing I noticed was his stern expression. It didn't put my mind at ease about our prospects for seeing the sun rise the next day!

It didn't take long to find out what they wanted.

It seemed that the chief's oldest daughter was missing.

The chief's second daughter, Sarah, who Hawk had told me about earlier, acted as translator, telling us in perfect English all that had happened.

Laughing Waters had been missing for two days. At first the Paiutes figured she was just off by herself, but by nightfall her mother and the chief had got worried. No one had seen her. Several parties had ridden out into the surrounding hills, but none found a trace of her.
All the next day they kept on getting more anxious, until halfway through the afternoon a lone rider was spotted approaching the camp. By the time he arrived, every one of the Paiutes—men, women, and children—had gathered around, hoping for some news about the daughter of Chief Winnemucca.

There was news all right, but not the kind they'd been hoping for.

The rider was Jack Demming.

He rode straight into the Paiute camp, all cocky and full of bravado—almost with a grin on his face, to hear Sarah tell it, almost daring them to lay a finger on him.

He had the girl, he told them, looking the chief straight in the eye as if he weren't afraid of a thing. She was in a cave ten miles away, tied and gagged. They could kill him, but then she'd be dead from the snakes and scorpions a long time before they ever got to her—if they ever did find her. More likely she'd die right where she was, and no one would ever lay eyes on her again. Even if she managed to get away on her own, there weren't no water for miles, and she'd be so twisted and confused by the time she got back on the plain that she would never know the direction back to the camp. The only way they would ever see the chief's daughter again, the bounty hunter said, was to agree to his conditions.

The terms Demming laid down were simple enough: the half-breed, unarmed, and bound with hands behind his back, in exchange for the girl. There wouldn't be no negotiations. That was the deal. The Indians were supposed to send the half-breed out several miles from camp to a spot Demming named, and he would release the girl at the same place several hours later. He'd said he would be back the next morning for their answer.

With that he turned and galloped away.

That had all taken place several hours ago. Within a short time the party had been sent to fetch Hawk and me, and now we stood there listening to Sarah telling us all that went on.

She didn't seem like all the other Indian women around the camp. There was a gentleness about her—a look in her eyes that was somehow different than what you'd expect out there in the desert. Maybe it was the result of the time she'd spent with white people. Or, I wondered, could the look be the result of her being Christian?

Finally Sarah finished and everything fell silent. She looked at her father. He nodded to her, and she went to sit down with the
other women. The chief looked across to Hawk where he and I were standing.

“So I make you, Hawk, responsible to bring daughter to me,” he said, his own English broken but understandable. “You white like evil man Demming. You find, you make listen, you bring daughter.”

“Demming's no friend of mine,” said Hawk.

“He white.”

“That doesn't make him a friend. I don't even know the man.”

“That's a lie!” Tranter burst out, standing a few feet from the chief. “I saw him in your camp, eating your food, sharing your fire.”

“You shared that fire and food yourself a day or two later,” Hawk reminded him.

“If I hadn't been out of my head at the time, I would have killed you both.”

“If it hadn't been for Hawk, you'd be dead!” I said angrily. “He kept that wound in your side from getting more infected.”

“Shut up, Zack!” Hawk growled at me, jabbing me in the ribs. “Leave this to me.”

“Silence!” sounded the voice of the chief. “Daughter must be found. Other things put aside. You, Hawk—you white man Paiutes trust. You not bad like other white man. You know desert, desert lets you live. You know Paiute, Paiute let you live. You know white man. You find Laughing Waters.”

“Bah, you can't trust 'em!” spat Tranter. “Let me kill 'em both right here, and then I'll go find the—”

My knees quivered just to hear him talk like he did. I had no doubt that, given the chance, he'd pull out that huge knife of his and stick it into both our hearts in a second. But the chief interrupted him.

“Silence, son of Weeping Feather!” said the chief, turning and glaring at Tranter. It was the first time I'd heard what the Paiutes called him. “You cause of trouble. Kill and steal and make white man angry, then come here, only bring trouble. You no true Paiute. You nothing—evil mixed blood. You one I should kill. Only give you refuge to honor your mother. Weeping Feather brave woman. But you evil.”

“Let me go after Demming,” said the son of Weeping Feather. “You're right. I'm the reason he has come and has taken your daughter. I'll find Laughing Waters and kill Demming.”

“Fool!” spat the chief back to him. “You weak. Wound still bad. Man called Demming kill you and Laughing Waters.”

I was thinking to myself that Demming and Tranter were so much alike, bitter enemies though they were, that they deserved each other. What more fitting end to all this than for them to kill each other and die together in their hate? I don't suppose those were very honorable thoughts, but when you think you're about to die, you don't have much control over the directions your brain takes.

In the meantime, the chief was talking to Hawk again.

“You find, Hawk. You bring Laughing Waters.”

“What about Demming?” said Hawk.

“You kill. We kill. No matter to me.”

“But I know nothing about Demming—no idea where he might be.”

“We give you name of Hawk. You always see what even Paiute not see. You have hawk eyes. You find.”

“And if I can't find her in time?”

“Then we kill boy.”

My eyes opened wide, and my heart began pounding even harder than before as the chief nodded toward me. While I struggled to keep from collapsing in fear, the chief went on, and what he said next was even worse.

“We keep boy. Man Demming has Laughing Waters. You bring daughter, we give you boy. Harm come to girl, boy die. Maybe you die too, Hawk. You not bad . . . but you white.”

The chief gave a nod with his head, and two dozen Paiute braves scurried forward. Within a minute Hawk and I were tied up and being shoved toward a tentlike enclosure made of willow branches and cattail mats with brush and skins thrown over it.

There was a small fire in the camp, but it didn't offer much light as we were being pushed along. The moon hadn't come up yet. I couldn't see Hawk's face, but I could almost feel him thinking.

“You leave camp daybreak,” the chief said to Hawk. “You hide in hills. Demming come, we say we agree. You follow. Get daughter. Kill Demming. Bring daughter, we give you boy.”

Nothing more was said, and in another minute we were shoved to the ground inside the little shelter. Several of the Indians stayed behind, standing guard around the outside of it.