The Son (32 page)

The sun was close to setting when a bell in the hacienda began to ring, probably the supper bell, but the Comanches thought we’d been spotted and then everyone was on their horses, moving toward the village and the ranch. Shields were adjusted. A few riders carried cut-down shotguns or repeating pistols, but most had their bows ready with a half-dozen arrows clenched in the hand that held the bow, the seventh arrow nocked, quivers adjusted so they could get to more arrows when they needed them. Reins were tied short so they would not be in the way. You were expected to steer only with your knees.

We came at them with the sun behind us, making our way quietly through the brush until we were nearly at the edge of the village. Then we kicked the horses into a run. There was a small open area to be crossed and there was whooping and ululating as if we were celebrating a great occasion, white-clad Mexicans fleeing for the chaparral, a general cry of “
Los bárbaros,
” a single puff of gunsmoke from between two houses, another musket pointing from a window. I aimed just to the left of the barrel but the horse was running too fast and I missed. I fumbled away my rifle and took out my bow and we were into the village, a wide main street with white adobe houses on either side; I wondered how many people there were and saw more puffs of gunsmoke but all I heard was the whooping and ululating and I started to think I would not be hurt. Everything was moving slowly. I could see each stone and clod of dirt, arrows falling toward men on rooftops or behind walls, a boy holding an escopeta sprinting down the street in front of us, his hat fell off, his arm went back to reach for it and an arrow stuck into him, then a second arrow hit and then he turned suddenly and dodged between two houses.

Then we were at the end of the village. There was only one street so I turned around and went back down it. An old man stepped out with a pistol; he was pulling a careful bead and I felt the wind as the ball went. Before I could get my bow aimed the horse changed course and ran him over and I could tell by the sound that he would not be getting up. Then I was going by a long adobe wall and there were puffs of clay the whole length and I realized people were shooting at me. Somehow I was at the front, but the arrows were still going past on both sides and then I reached the end of the village again.

A man wearing the black coat of a hacendado was crouched behind a mesquite, calmly letting off a repeater. I shot two arrows but they went rattling off the branches and then another arrow came from behind me and cut through a small opening and the man fell backward. There was a
whoopwhoopwhoop
and Toshaway shook his bow, then turned away to look for more people. I realized I had not been shooting enough. I stopped to situate my arrows. My shield popped me in the nose; there was a white-shirted man surrounded by a cloud of gunsmoke and I shot a quick arrow. He dropped his musket and took a few drunken steps, then ran into the chaparral with the arrow wagging in front of him. I shot another into his back, which didn’t slow him down either. He disappeared. I noticed I’d been standing still. I kicked the horse and we went back down the street.

There was no longer a charge as much as a general melee. Arrows kept flying past me; people kept falling over; I would look at someone—they would get hit by an arrow—I would look at someone else—they would get hit as well. I was beginning to feel like the hand of God Himself, then remembered my shield and got it up and moving just as it was knocked into my head again. I tried to wipe my eyes and kicked the horse just as the shield was hit a third and fourth time. I was rowing it in huge circles; I crouched and reached the end of the village and charged directly into the chaparral to gather myself up.

A woman with a child appeared in front of me; she was running blind and the horse turned to trample her. I kneed him away, missing her, then made a big circle in the brush and headed back to the village. By now the street was nothing but bodies and dismounted Comanches taking scalps. Most of the riders had gone somewhere else. There was shooting a few hundred yards away, at the main ranch house. A person with a musket came out from behind a wall, looked around, and sprinted for the chaparral. I cut his shirt with an arrow but he kept running and I knew I’d been missing most of my shots. I sat there a minute and nothing happened. I rode toward the shooting.

A dozen Indians had surrounded the house and were shooting arrows and occasionally a rifle toward it. The inhabitants were alive and well as there were regular puffs of smoke coming from the gunports and windows. On a stone patio, two men were lying next to a stub-barreled cannon, a ramrod and barrel of powder turned over next to them.

The main body of Comanches was off rounding up the horses, and I got a strange feeling watching the siege of the house so before I could be recruited I rode off to help gather the animals.

W
E RODE ALL
night but everyone was in a good mood, a thousand horses stretched out in front of us, enough to get our band back on its feet. I thought about the man I’d shot in the back and stomach and the other man I’d run down with the horse, and the others I had shot at but was not sure if I had hit. I figured it was possible they were all dead. None of them had given me the feeling of the Delaware and I wondered if I would ever have that again. I told myself they were just Mexicans and they would have done the same to me. My father always said the Mexicans had as much fun torturing people as the Indians.

Around midday we were into the foothills, driving the horses up a dry streambed. At the top of the hill, opposite the side we’d climbed, we stopped to collect our thoughts. I rode to find Toshaway and found him standing with Pizon, refilling his waterskin at a stream and cursing the Indians who had driven the horses through the water instead of along the banks.

“Ah,” said Pizon. “The Great Tiehteti.”

“He who charges at the front.”

I started to grin.

“Oh, that was quite beautiful, Tiehteti, you charging through the middle of them like that, missing with every arrow you fired, then meanwhile every single one of them was trying to kill you, and they were missing as well.” He chuckled and shook his head. “It was something to behold.”

“I did hit one of them,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, in the stomach. And in the back. And I killed another one with the horse.”

“Did you scalp them?”

“No, I kept going.” I couldn’t quite remember why I hadn’t scalped them. “The one had a musket,” I said.

“Oh, a musket.”

“Pizon and I were maybe ten paces behind, but it was as if all the rays of the sun were shining only on you, you were like the prize that every man in that village wanted and they had no eyes for the rest of us.”

“And you were riding so fucking fast.”

“That’s what you said to do.”

“If you are attacking, you don’t ride faster than you can shoot.”

“Don’t worry, we killed them all for you. And Saupitty and Ten Buffalo killed the ones we didn’t see. What a beautiful fucking massacre.”

“How is it possible I missed?” I said.

“I would say that you shoot like a woman,” said Pizon. “But it would not be fair to the women.”

“Tiehteti, if you are charging directly toward someone, it does not matter that you are moving. But if they are off to your side, it matters a lot. If your horse is running, you aim one step behind your target if he is close, so the arrow will be carried into him, but if he is far away you might aim five steps behind, though of course it depends on the angle, and on the wind, and how fast you are moving. When the horse is running, you have to remember the arrow is falling both down and forward. Last night you shot ahead of every target, as if you were aiming directly at them.”

“I was,” I said.

“Fuck it,” said Pizon, “he deserves a scalp anyway. I have never shot so many people in my life who did not even know I was there.” Then he added: “You are fucking brave, Tiehteti. I was very worried for you. And Toshaway is right, you cannot shoot for dogshit.” He saw the look on my face. “At least not from a horse. I have seen you shoot from the ground, and you are okay. But perhaps for the rest of this year, when we return, you will practice only from horseback and only at targets that are to one side of you.”

“And perhaps we will make sure you have a few pistols in the future. The white men all have them now anyway. It is not such a crime to use them.”

“I’ve been trying to ask for one.”

“If I had given you one, where would you be with the bow?” He shook his head. “You are very good with the pistol, we all know that, but there is no point practicing what you are already good at.”

We stood there. I filled my
pihpóo
with the muddy water. To the north we could see the river and the mountains rising up from it, blue and purple with the distance. Then N
uu
karu came bounding over the rocks, followed by another young
mahimiawapi
.

“We are followed. Maybe a hundred men, maybe more.”

We stood looking at him.

“Did you hear me?” he said.

“You are like a little girl, N
uu
karu.”

“We need to get moving,” he said.

“Where the fuck did a hundred men come from?” said Pizon. “There are not one hundred horses left in this entire province.”

“A hundred, fifty, there are a lot of men. I am not sure how else to explain it.”

“First it’s one hundred. Now it’s fifty. Soon it will be five old men herding goats.”

“Toshaway,” N
uu
karu said, “bring your spyglass, but you won’t need it.”

He ran back up the hill.

Pizon looked at the boy who’d come down with N
uu
karu. “Is he just being a woman?”

“I can’t see if it’s men or horses, but there was a lot of dust.” Then he added: “His eye carries farther than mine, though.”

“Probably some asshole driving cattle.”

“They are following our route.”

“It’s a dry riverbed through chaparral. With a spring at the top of the hill. Every animal within five miles is going to use this path.”

“I think they are men, Pizon.”

Pizon dismissed him. “Do not let yourself become like this, Tiehteti. There are many things to worry about, but when you think every bush is hiding something, you soon become tired, and then you will not see the man who really is waiting to kill you.”

He spat into the dirt.

“
Yee,
this is making me crazy. When we get to Presidio, it will be time to worry.”

No one said anything.

“You fucking kids.”

Toshaway came back.

“
T
u
yato?yer
u
,
the young ones are right. When we reach the river, you’ll take the horses and the north trail, the rest of us will make tracks going west.”

Pizon looked at him.

“They are right. It is far and the dust is thick, but they are men, and they are chasing us for sure.”

W
HEN WE REACHED
the river it was dark and we were barely a few miles ahead of them.

The water was shallow; the summer rains hadn’t yet come. That was lucky and the moon was not up yet, which was also lucky.

Pizon and twenty or so others took the horse herd downriver, directly through the middle of the water. They would ride that way before turning into the Texas mountains. The rest of us rode up and down the banks trampling their tracks, leaving obvious sign pointed upriver and also directly up the opposite bank, any direction except the one they’d taken. Then we headed upriver.

“We’re the bait,” I said.

“If they are stupid they’ll presume we crossed directly and they will enter the rocks on the Texas side and become confused about where we went. If they are smart they will presume we went upriver.”

“What if they go downriver?”

“Let us hope for the sake of our band that they do not do that.”

“So they will follow us.”

“Most likely.”

When we reached a point where the ground was rocky, we climbed out of the water in single file and, after a brief discussion about where to meet, split into three groups heading in different directions. Toshaway and I continued west, along with a few others.

“If they are Mexicans, maybe they do not follow us,” he said.

The moon had finally come up and we could see where we were. Then there were sounds and a dozen riders were coming upriver and then another group came out of the brush and the shooting started and didn’t stop. I took off into the chaparral. When I looked back the only one still mounted was Toshaway; he had another Indian riding double behind him. I stopped in a thicket with my rifle pointed toward a gap, watching as the men approached the opening and squeezing the trigger as they passed. One of them doubled over and I turned and rode straight into the thorns; there was a lot of shooting and bullets cracking branches all around but they couldn’t see me and I didn’t slow down. After a few minutes I couldn’t hear anyone. It was a miracle my eyes had not been torn out by the brush. I continued uphill another half mile or so, then circled and waited.

There were a few shots down toward the river and I stopped to recharge my rifle then rode toward the noise. Then I saw a man crouched in the brush. It was Toshaway. He was naked and his breechcloth was tied around a wound on his leg. All he had was his bow and a handful of arrows; his knife and pistol were gone. He mounted behind me and kicked the horse and we were moving again.

“Are you shot?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then your horse is.”

He was right. Its flank was streaked in blood, which I had mistaken for sweat. “You’re a good horse,” I said.

“Use him up, but do it gently.”

“How’s your leg?”

“It must have missed the artery or I would not be alive.”

We rode for two hours, climbing into the barren mountains, keeping to the drainages to stay hidden. Whatever water had carved them was long gone; the streambeds were as dusty as the flatlands. We stopped at a ridge top. While I was watching our backtrail, Toshaway slashed the needles off a pear pad, split it, and packed it into his wound. I tied the poultice on with his breechcloth. The muscle was badly bruised. Behind us the mountain dropped steeply toward the river; we had not made much distance but we had climbed a lot. I could see riders moving where the moon came off the water and I knew they could see us against the pale rocks.