Comanche (3 page)

Trained fingers fanged down and slid the bowie knife from its sheath. Even as the knife’s long blade came clear, Ysabel dropped to one knee. The tomahawk hissed through the air, passing so close over his head that he felt the wind caused by it stir his hair. Instantly Ysabel lunged forward, thrusting out the deadly knife with savage force.

Too late Bitter Root saw his danger. Blind fury had driven him beyond all caution, spurred him into stupid, uncaring recklessness. Against a fighting man of Sam Ysabel’s calibre, such a mistake was fatal. Although he tried desperately to halt or twist aside and avoid the knife-thrust his impetus carried him inexorably onwards to doom. Even as his free hand struck down in a vain attempt to block Ysabel’s attack, he felt a numbing, burning sensation in his stomach. Shocked pain wiped the fury from his face as he realised that he had been unable to either stop his advance or block the knife’s thrust.

Ysabel felt the clipped point of the bowie dig into flesh, then the razor-sharp blade continued to sink deeper. Such was the design of the James Black bowie, the finest fighting knife ever made, that it sank hilt-deep into Bitter Root’s belly almost of its own volition. Instinctively Ysabel ripped the knife sideways. He felt the rush of hot stomach gas on his hand, then the sticky dampness of flowing blood as he tore the man’s belly wide open. A strangled cry broke from Bitter Root’s lips. Jack-knifing over as the knife sliced clear of his flesh, the stricken man staggered forward a couple of steps. His hands clawed ineffectively at the hideous mortal wound and he crumpled to the ground.

Before the dying man landed at his side, Ysabel came erect and brought his blood-dripping knife into the on-guard position. The precaution proved to be unnecessary. While a rumble of talk welled up among the onlookers, it held no censure for Ysabel’s actions. Incidents such as just witnessed were no novelty among the
Pehnane
and other bands of the Comanche Nation. Born and raised to be fighting men, the braves possessed proud, touchy natures which refused to turn the other cheek when insulted or abused. Formal duels never happened. Any affront received prompt settlement of a definite nature.

Nor did the fact that Sam Ysabel had a white skin affect the issue. When he took initiation into the Dog Soldier’s lodge, he became classed as a full-blooded
Pehnane
and received all a Comanche’s privileges.

If it came to a point, Bitter. Root could not claim
Pehnane
blood either; being an Apache captured as a child, adopted as a son by his captor and made a full member of the band by virtue of his skill as a fighting man.

Maybe there would have been trouble if Bitter Root stood high in his war lodge’s favour. His general attitude, plus a lack of those virtues by which a brave became liked and admired, prevented him from gaining the admiration of the other members of the Owl lodge. So none of them felt any responsibility in the matter, or wished to avenge his death.

Wiping clean his knife blade. Ysabel scanned the crowd until locating the senior Owl lodge member present.

‘My apologies for spoiling your game,’ the big white man said formally.

‘You have good cause?’ inquired the Owl lodge leader.

‘Good enough,’ Long Walker put in and indicated the body. ‘Has that one a brother?’

‘No. He has four wives. None of them will mourn him greatly—’

‘Except the one called Fire Dancer,’ put in another member of the Owl lodge. ‘She bore him a son only a few days ago.’

‘I will send them blankets and four horses,’ Ysabel promised.

The words brought a mumble of approval from the listening crowd. As the insulted party, Ysabel did not need to raise a finger to help the dead man’s dependants. Doing so increased his standing in the band and made less likely any attempts at reprisals by hot-headed, name-seeking Owl lodge
tuivitsi
.*

Leaving Long Walker to explain the cause of the visit to the assembled gamblers, Ysabel and War Club collected their horses and rode back to the Dog Soldiers’ camp area. There the Indian explained to his wives what would be needed and Many Brothers rose immediately to obey.

On his return to the birth-tepee. Ysabel found all ready for his wife’s funeral. After he entered the tepee and paid his final respects, the waiting women completed their work. Folding the blanket around the body which rested upon it, they bound it firmly in place. Ysabel brought up Raven Head’s favourite horse and left it before the tepee, withdrawing to the fire and standing with his head bowed in grief. Carefully the women carried out the body and lifted it on to the waiting horse. One of the sisters mounted and sat on each side of the body, holding it in position, then the party rode slowly from the camp. Three miles from the village, to the west of the lodge in which she died, Raven Head was laid to rest in a deep crevice on top of a high hill. Her sisters placed her facing to the west in a sitting posture and the weeping mourners covered her in a mound of rocks, bushes and earth.

Standing alone after the departure of the rest of the party, Sam Ysabel said a silent, half-forgotten prayer. Then he took out his bowie knife and slit the throat of his wife’s horse, tumbling its body into the crevice so that its spirit might serve her in death.

‘
Adios, querida,
’ he said gently. ‘I’ll care for the boy.’

With that, he turned and walked to his patiently waiting grulla. Swinging into the saddle, Ysabel rode slowly away from his wife’s grave and down towards the
Pehnane
village where his son drank thirstily from the breast of Many Brothers.

Whatever fate the future held for Loncey Dalton Ysabel, at least he would not now starve to death.

oooOooo

* Tuivitsi: Young unmarried brave, especially one still making his name.

CHAPTER THREE

WHILE the death of a woman called for extensive mourning on the part of her relatives, including the destruction of her personal belongings and the tepee in which she died, much more was expected from the bereaved of a name warrior. In the case of a highly-respected and well-loved husband, the wives would gash open their faces, breasts and limbs, keeping the wounds open, raw and irritated for months. Sometimes the wives would cut off all their hair, an ear or a finger to show their sense of loss. Often they remained at the grave, wailing and mourning, refusing all food, until forcibly removed by relatives concerned for their safety and health.

The wives of Bitter Root, with one exception, showed only such grief as needed by convention. A harsh husband with mean, cruel ways, he held the affection of only one of his four wives. That one, like Bitter Root, had been a captive. Born in a small Mexican village, the woman fell victim to a Comanche raiding party while still a young child. Brought north to the
Pehnane
country, she lived as a slave to her captor’s family and grew into a slim, fiery, beautiful girl with an amazing skill at dancing. She also possessed another talent, as shown when taken as third wife by Bitter Root. In a short time she ousted the first wife and assumed the position of
pairaivo
. Only Fire Dancer never felt the surly wrath of Bitter Root and she lived very well especially when compared with the other wives.

Seated in her tepee on the night of Bitter Root’s death, Fire Dancer realised that life would not be so easy in future. The other wives were not going to forget her abuses and all had families ready to take their part. Already the other three spoke loudly in her presence about the manner in which their dead husband’s wealth would be divided. Unless otherwise stated by its owner, a dead man’s property—such items as were not by tradition destroyed—was shared equally between his wives. Fire Dancer had hoped to gain far more than a mere quarter, but knew that the opportunity to do so had gone. From being the
pairaivo
of a wealthy warrior, one single afternoon reduced her to the position of a comparatively poor widow dependent on charity to feed her and the tiny baby in the cradleboard upon her knee.

Brooding on the wickedness of life, Fire Dancer looked down at the baby; a boy destined by a medicine man’s prediction to become a fine brave and great war leader. No matter how her son grew up, Fire Dancer swore that he would have one purpose in mind; to take revenge on everybody connected with his father’s death. If possible, she aimed to help him in the task.

One thing she wanted to do was get away from the
Pehnane
village. All too well she could imagine her fate at the hands of the other wives and neighbouring women she had given cause to hate her. Until the boy grew older, it would be best if they sought fresh pastures. Recalling that she had heard a small party intended to go on a visit to the
Kweharehnuh
, Antelope band which made its home in the Tule and Palo Duro country, Fire Dancer decided to ask permission to accompany them. Only when the party returned to the
Pehnane
village, she did not intend to be with it.

Hanging the cradleboard on her shoulder, she left the tepee and went in search of the party’s leader. On hearing the woman’s story, he gave permission for her to travel with them. Next day, after the division of Bitter Root’s property, Fire Dancer rode away from the
Pehnane
camp. It would be many years before she returned, but time would do nothing to change her feelings or lesson her desire for revenge.

Not knowing that he had made an enemy by killing Bitter Root, Sam Ysabel also made plans. Much as he hated the thought, he knew he must leave the village and return to his duty. A combined army of Texans and regular United States soldiers fought to establish once and for all who would own the Lone Star State. Men like Ysabel, who knew the country and how to live in it as well as the best ways to fight Mexicans, were badly needed, so he knew he must return.

‘I’ll be riding after the name-giving ceremony,’ he told Long Walker as they sat smoking their stone pipes by the chief’s fire.

‘It is good,’ Long Walker answered quietly. ‘War Club’s women will care for the child until you return and I will watch over him.’

‘I knew that without telling,’ Ysabel assured the other.

That evening a good-sized crowd gathered before Long Walker’s tepees. Bringing the infant from War Club’s dwellings, Many Brothers prepared to deliver him to the chief
Pehnane
medicine man who would perform the name-giving ceremony. Although a public affair, the name-giving had to be carried out inside a tepee. After the main guests had been settled inside,
Tawyawp
, senior medicine man, made his dignified entrance. First he lit his pipe from the tepee fire and directed puffs of smoke to the earth, sky and four major points of the compass. With this done, he raised a prayer to
Ka-Dih
, the Great Spirit, asking that the baby’s future be long and successful. Then, laying aside his sacred medicine pipe, he accepted the naked, squirming child from Long Walker’s
pairaivo
.

Raising the baby into the air.
Tawyawp
intoned the words, ‘His name will be Loncey Dalton Ysabel.’

Four times he repeated the words, fumbling a little over the strange non-Comanche names, raising the baby a little higher into the air on each repetition. At the end of it, Loncey received his name in as correct and formal a manner as if some circuit-riding white preacher performed the ceremony in a church, anointed his head in water and inscribed the child’s full title in the family Bible.

Despite the family being in mourning for Raven Head, grandson’s baptism had to be celebrated in a fitting manner. Ysabel and Long Walker did well in the supplying of food and presents for the guests. Singing, dancing, the telling of great deeds performed lasted all night and the name-giving ceremony was conducted in a manner guaranteed to ensure Loncey a life of length and success.

Despite his rousing and hectic send-off, Loncey Dalton Ysabel did little beyond eating and sleeping during the first nine months of his life. Once the name-giving ceremony ended, he was carried back to his foster-mother’s tepee and returned to the cradleboard. Having her own son to care for, Many Brothers only fed Loncey. The rest of the time, the
pairaivo
saw to his needs. Each night the
pairaivo
removed him from the board, washed, greased and powdered him tenderly and carefully. At night Loncey slept comfortably in a bed built inside a stiff tube of rawhide, the latter to prevent him from being crushed should the
pairaivo
—no featherweight—roll on him during her sleep.

At no time did Loncey receive different treatment to Many Brothers’ son, Loud Voice. He might have been the women’s own flesh and blood, the loving care and attention they lavished upon him. During his sixth month, a marauding bunch of Kaddo bucks raided the village. When the howling braves tore between the tepees, the
pairaivo
caught up Loncey and dashed for safety. She carried the boy with her stocky body between him and the attackers, determined to shield him from flying arrows.

When he reached the ripe age of nine months, Loncey found himself freed for the first time from the cradleboard and allowed to learn the delights of creeping about the tepee. Watched over by the women and older daughters, he progressed from travelling on hands and knees to tottering upon two bare feet. He put on weight to such an extent that the
pairaivo
could no longer carry him on her back. As he out-grew the cradle-board, so his method of transport changed during the time when the village made one of its periodic moves. Instead of hanging suspended from the
pairaivo’s
saddle, he graduated to sharing a place on a travois pulled by a gentle steady pony.

Being fighters and hunters who grew no crops, the
Pehnane
needed to change locations at regular intervals. In a very short time, the boy grew used to travelling and as he increased in age the more fun it became.

During the first four years of his life, Loncey ranged the
Pehnane
hunting grounds from the Pecos River to the Cross Timbers Belt and along the headwaters of the Central Texas rivers. He saw a vast amount of country while suspended from a saddle, or perched alongside Loud Voice upon a travois. His foster-parents treated him as their own and his maternal grandparents gave him attention. With the Mexican War over, Sam Ysabel returned and continued his life of hunting, selling meat, hides, furs and wild horses to the ever-growing ranches and settlements. Loncey soon grew to respect the big white man and considered himself very fortunate in having so many people deeply concerned with his welfare.

One morning at about the time of his fourth birthday, Loncey found his grandfather waiting for him as he left the tepee. Something in the chief’s attitude gave the boy, young though he was, a warning that Long Walker did not just happen to be on hand at that particular time.

‘Come,
tawk
,’ said Long Walker, using the common term by which grandfather and grandson addressed each other.

No Comanche boy was ever led by the hand and Loncey strutted along proudly at his grandfather’s side, wondering what might be in the air. Certainly it would not be any kind of punishment. For one thing he had done nothing to merit it; and even if he misbehaved, it would not be his grandfather or parents who handled his correction. That task fell upon his oldest foster sister. Even she did not employ physical punishment, but directed the misbehaving child with persuasion or threats. The parents and grandparents merely presented the child with object lessons in good behaviour.

Side by side, Loncey and Long Walker passed from the boundary of the village and went to a small valley a short distance away. Realisation began to creep up on the boy as he saw a small pony standing picketed in the valley.

‘It is time you learned to ride like a
Pehnane, tawk,
’ Long Walker informed him, confirming his thoughts.

‘Will I be a brave-heart warrior then,
tawk
?’ piped the boy eagerly.

‘In time,’ smiled the chief. ‘You do not want me to fasten you on the god-dog’s back with a rope, do you?’

Already Loncey possessed a certain pride. Puffing out his tiny chest, he shook his head. ‘I do not,
tawk
.’

Taking hold of the boy under his arms, Long Walker swung him up and perched him on the pony’s back. Despite his casual refusal to be secured in position, Loncey could not hold down a nervous gulp. While the pony stood only twelve hands, its forty-eight inch height seemed to tower far above the ground. Determined not to allow any sign of fear to show, Loncey sat rigid and straight. Glancing at his grandson, Long Walker started the pony moving slowly forward. Used from birth to the motion of a travelling horse, Loncey found it vastly different when seated astride. Grabbing hold of the mane in both hands, he clung on until the knuckles showed white, while his legs clamped on to the pony’s ribs and gripped tightly. Slowly his nervousness left him and a feeling of exhilaration replaced it.

‘Faster!’ he screeched excitedly.

Then he felt himself falling. Over-confidence caused him to relax his hold and the slight increase in the pony’s pace altered its gait enough to throw him off balance. Generations of horse savvy brought about an instinctive reaction. Instead of trying to stiffen himself and control the fall, a sure way to get hurt, Loncey’s body remained relaxed. Given time to think, he might have acted otherwise. The fall, coming so unexpectedly, did not allow time for thought. Landing on the ankle-deep buffalo grass. Loncey bounced once and lay winded, fighting to hold down the tears which pain induced. Slowly he raised his eyes and looked up into his grandfather’s face. He read no derision or condemnation; nor did he see any of the concern the chief felt.

‘Are you hurt,
tawk
?’ asked Long Walker.

‘N—No.’

A potential brave-heart warrior did not admit that a mere fall from a pony jolted his rump severely and painfully.

‘Then get up.’

Slowly Loncey rose. Not without some misgivings did he feel himself swung up on to the pony’s back once more. However he set his face into a grim, determined mask and took a firm hold.

‘I am ready,’ he said, trying to sound a whole heap bolder than he felt.

‘This time watch what you are doing,’ warned Long Walker. Before the boy had time to think of the fall and become afraid, Long Walker started the pony moving. Being forced to concentrate on staying astride prevented Loncey from worrying about losing his seat and in a short time the old feeling of pleasure returned.

After a short time the boy caught the knack of staying astride. With his background and breeding, riding came almost easier than walking. He quickly learned how to maintain his balance and by the time noon came could stay with the horse at a walk and up to a steady trot. In the afternoon he progressed to sitting the pony while it circled Long Walker at the end of a long rawhide rope.

‘You have done well,
tawk
,’ said Long Walker as the boy slipped from the pony’s back at his command.

‘Can I ride some more,
tawk
?’ Loncey piped eagerly, ignoring the ache in his legs and body.

‘Not this day,’ smiled the chief. ‘Your pony is tired, and so am I.’

So, if he cared to admit, was Loncey; more tired than he could ever remember being. For all that, the boy felt happy. Small and young though he might be, Loncey realised that he had taken an important part and major step in his life.

With the possible exception of the buffalo, nothing was more important to the Comanche than the horse. It offered him more than a means of transport and mobility. Alive, the horse carried the Comanche or hauled his property from place to place; allowed him to run down the buffalo and assisted in hunting other animals; bore him to war, enabling him to strike fast and over vast distances, or make good his retreat should that become necessary; was a source of wealth and prestige, a valuable gift and an acceptable item of barter. Nor did the horse’s usefulness end with its death. Its flesh could—and often did—provide a meal when the hunting failed or time prohibited the seeking of game. Shelter, robes, saddles and rawhide thongs were made from its hide, the mane and tail being converted into ropes and bridles. Without the horse, a Comanche became static and useless. Sat astride the ‘god-dog’, he was master of all he surveyed. Unlike some of the horse-Indian tribes, the Comanche held the horse in high esteem and rarely mistreated it. Each man possessed at least one favourite mount which he tended, petted and trained, keeping it picketed close to his tepee at night while the rest of his string—which might run into dozens or scores of animals—grazed among the band’s remuda upon the open range beyond the village. To kill, or attempt to harm, a favourite horse classed as murder. In the event of a legal dispute involving the payment of damages, whatever else might be claimed, the prosecution party almost always asked for the defendant’s favourite horse to be included.