Comanche Dawn (7 page)

Shaggy Hump could tell that they were young warriors who had gone out to scout and hunt and had gotten themselves into more mischief than they could handle. They were making no attempt to guard their back-trail against pursuit. They did not understand the ways of war like the True Humans—a people forever hunted. Tonight he would teach them.

After crawling back to his pony, Shaggy Hump prayed silently and used paint of red clay and berry juice from his paint pouch to make the war marks upon his face: two red streaks streaming snakelike, downward from his cheeks to his jawline. Waiting for darkness to fall and the moon to rise, he crept downwind of the enemy camp to plan his attack. The fire had burned out, and only the moon and stars made light. He smelled the faint trace of smoke and the aroma of horse sweat, and knew he was very near. He carried only his knife and war club with which to kill, though he had also brought along a single arrow with a chipped point and half a feather missing—one he did not mind parting with.

He thought about each step he took, testing the ground gradually with his weight in case a cracking stick from the willow and cottonwood timber or a pair of rocks scraping together might warn the Raiders. Once, a dried leaf crackled as he shifted on one foot for balance, and he remained still a very long time to ensure he had not been discovered.

The spirits were making the winds gust with their breath, causing the sounds of whistling tree branches and scuttering leaves to cover his approach, and he moved more rapidly than he otherwise might have.

Finally, he was upon the camp and could hear the feet of the horse shifting from time to time. He could see all three of the unwounded warriors sleeping now. One slept near the horse, guarding it. The rawhide thong around the animal's neck was also wrapped around this warrior's wrist. He was curled in his robe at the roots of a
sohoobi
tree—the kind of tree that rained little tufts of white hair in the spring. The other two warriors had gone to sleep some ten or twelve steps away, beside the fire. Beyond them were the corpse of the dead Raider and the wounded man, moaning in his sleep.

The wind came up, allowing three quick steps, and Shaggy Hump was upon the rawhide thong. He grabbed it just as his scent reached the nostrils of the horse, which pulled against the rawhide in curiosity, for the beast knew Shaggy Hump's scent. Keeping the thong from pulling at the wrist of the sleeping guard, Shaggy Hump began slowly sawing at the rawhide with the iron knife his son had captured in the battle of the Red Canyon.

When at last the rawhide had been cut, Shaggy Hump tied the horse to a stout tree, which would prevent the horse from wandering off as he went about his duty. He chose each step carefully, until he was standing over the sleeping guard. He raised his
pogamoggan
in one hand, taking the rawhide line he had cut in the other.

He pulled gently on the rawhide, as if the horse were moving away. Two coils of the rawhide slipped off of the Raider's wrist before he grabbed it, half-asleep. Shaggy Hump slacked the tension, then pulled harder. The Raider jerked angrily, as if to punish the horse. Shaggy Hump waited for the next gust to roar in the treetops, then pulled once more on the rawhide, horselike.

The enemy warrior grunted and revealed his head from within the robe. The
pogamoggan
struck swiftly, and hard. Its thump against the skull caused the horse to shy, the hooves sounding much like the thump of the club upon the head. This was good. As the wind died, Shaggy Hump fell upon the enemy with his knife and cut his throat.

He listened as he felt the hot blood, and he could tell by a change in breathing that one of the other warriors near the ashes of the fire had woken and was listening. Shaggy Hump waited until his victim died, then waited longer. Longer. When he was sure the warrior at the fire suspected nothing and had gone back to sleep, he began taking the scalp from the warrior he had slain.

He did not take a large part of the scalp, for wrenching that much from the skull would have made much noise. He only took a small scalp lock, enough to dance around upon his return.

Tucking the trophy under the thong of his loin skins beneath his deerskin shirt, Shaggy Hump stood once more and judged the ground between himself and the two Raiders near the fire. There were many leaves and sticks here. He would have to slide a moccasin under them gradually for each step, waiting for the wind to cover the sound of his approach.

His legs and back became stiff from the hard work of creeping upon his foes, but at last he stood between them. The moon was almost gone behind the ridge, and Shaggy Hump knew he must finish quickly, for he needed light to find footing out of this enemy camp.

He knelt, slowly, over the Raider who slept with the Fire Stick. He could only see the end of the evil thing sticking out of the buffalo robe, and he knew from the stories that this end was the one which shot embers and bad medicine. He reached for it with the hand that held his knife, though the Fire Stick was very near the face of the sleeping enemy. His club was ready in case this warrior should wake.

Holding the iron knife with his thumb and two small fingers, he reached for the end of the Fire Stick with his bowstring fingers. He touched it cautiously, felt its chill. This was iron, the thing of the white man. Once, Shaggy Hump had thought the white man a legend made up by lesser peoples. He had since decided that this white man must exist somewhere, for he kept hearing more and more strange tales—from the Raccoon-Eyed People with whom he traded, and from women captured from enemies and made into wives of the Burnt Meat People's warriors. They said the white men grew hair out all over their faces, which Shaggy Hump thought must look very ugly, for the most handsome men were those who plucked all the hair from the chins, brows, and eyelids, as he himself did. He hoped some day to see a white man, and trade something for some arrow points or knives of iron or—better still—horses.

Whether or not he wanted a Fire Stick, he was still not sure. The one against his fingertips did not seem as evil as his brother had said. It wasn't waking up or barking fire. It was not alive. Still, it must have strong magic, or the enemy warrior would not guard it so closely. If ever he found out he could master such magic without offending the spirits, Shaggy Hump would obtain his own Fire Stick, but now it was better to let this one lie.

He stood again over his enemies, who were lost so stupidly in the false peace of sleep. He tucked the iron knife under his belt. He drew the lone arrow from his quiver. He began to draw it slowly from the quiver, bit by bit.

The barbed war point had been chipped thin and flaked to a fine edge by Wounded Bear, a maker of fine arrows, though he had been almost blind. This particular point had missed its target in a fight during the last Moon of Falling Leaves and had struck a rock, breaking the tip off. Shaggy Hump had plenty of arrows, and didn't mind leaving this one here.

Once clear of the quiver, he put the sharp point of the arrow against the earth, between the heads of the two Raiders. Using his weight, he leaned upon the shaft of this arrow with a silent and grueling deliberation, pushing the point past one grain of soil, then the next, then the next. Finally the point was sunk deep enough to make the arrow shaft stand against the wind. It would greet the enemy warriors when they woke at dawn, and mock them for their youthful inability to make war.

He used even more care moving away than he had used approaching, for this was where a warrior of lesser skills would lose discipline. The moon-made shadow of the bluff was moving onto the enemy camp now, staying close against the heel of Shaggy Hump's moccasin as he withdrew, step by purposeful step. He moved no faster than this shadow, arriving at last at the tree where he had tied his dead brother's horse, now his.

He led this horse away at the same regimented pace, as if each step spanned the body of a sleeping foe whom he must not wake. He moved away so slowly that the horse cropped every blade of grass along the way as they went. Away … away … away … until he had gone far enough to mount, and ride back to the Burnt Meat People in victory and glory.

6

The Time of Great
Change came in Shadow's fourteenth summer. It started during the Moon of Thunder, when the True Humans rolled up the bottoms of their lodge covers to let the breezes cool their resting places. Shadow was lying naked on the soft cured side of an old buffalo robe in his tipi, looking out under the rolled-up hides at the small herd of grazing horses the Burnt Meat People owned. Beyond the horses, he could look far across the gray sage and short brown grass. A great distance to the west, he saw a purple thundercloud hanging in the sky, a curtain of blue rain slanting from it.

He wished that it might come the way of his camp, that the grass would green again and bring herds of elk, deer, or antelope—maybe even buffalo. He knew he would be taking his first hunt soon, and the things he wanted to kill for meat numbered plenty. Yet, there was no hunger now in his camp, for the roots of the yampa vine were easily dug, and much meat had been dried. Also, small animals were plentiful here and tasted good enough.

He was chewing a piece of bread made from the crushed seeds of lamb's-quarters and sunflowers. His father's second wife, Looks Away, had made this bread and flavored it well with berries. Shadow loved Looks Away almost as much as his own mother, for they were both kind to him, though Looks Away sometimes scolded him.

As he ate, he listened to his father tell the story of the time he followed the Northern Raiders who had attacked the Burnt Meat People, and of how he had ridden home with the fresh scalp of the enemy who had stolen his brother's horse. Shadow remembered his uncle well, and knew his father did, also, though Black Horn's name was not mentioned in the story. To speak it might bring ghosts out with the moon.

“Do you remember the scalp dance we held when I returned, my son?” Shaggy Hump said.

“Yes, Father. It was a good one.”

The warrior waved his hand modestly. “It was just a little one. Only one scalp. You have yet to see a really good scalp dance.”

“Why did you not kill more Raiders that time, Father? You have said that you might have killed them all, because they slept so soundly.”

“That is true, but I must do as my guardian spirits instruct me in my dreams and in the visions I seek before battle. I was told to kill only one Raider, count only one battle stroke, and take only one scalp. To have killed more would have displeased the spirits and destroyed my medicine.”

Shadow inhaled through his nostrils, trying in vain to smell the faraway thundercloud. Instead, he smelled only the dung of horses, which pleased him nonetheless. “Why did you leave the arrow in the ground between the two Raiders?”

The warrior rubbed his full stomach and closed his eyes, speaking groggily now. “This, too, I was instructed to do. My markings were on the arrow shaft, so that the Northern Raiders would know who crept among them and killed their fellow warrior. This brings greater glory to the spirits who guide me and greater medicine to me.”

Shadow smiled with admiration upon the resting form of his father. He was proud to be the son of Shaggy Hump, greatest war leader of the Burnt Meat People. Shadow believed his father must even be the bravest warrior of all the True Humans of all the bands. His arms and shoulders looked like the burls of an ancient tree, his scars like battle wounds upon a great bear. He now owned enough horses to ride and ride hard every day, and still have a rested mount always ready. Shaggy Hump went almost nowhere afoot, preferring to mount a pony even to cross the camp.

“Father,” Shadow said, speaking softly in case Shaggy Hump had already fallen asleep.

His father grunted.

“When I go to seek my visions, what kind of spirit do you think I might meet?”

Shaggy Hump opened his eyes, smiled, and propped himself up on one elbow. “You have no need to think about it. The spirits are wiser about such things than we are. Anyway, I think you will know very soon. It is just about time for you, my son.”

Shadow's heart felt as if birds were fluttering in it, trying to escape. Soon, he would have medicine. Then, he would hunt the buffalo and the bear. Finally, he would become a warrior. Since that day at Red Canyon, the war cry of Black Horn, his uncle, had dwelled within him like an echo that never died, but only came again and again and again. Sometimes, even when that day was the most distant of his thoughts, he would suddenly hear his uncle's scream of courageous rage pass again, out of nowhere, into nothing. He would hear it so clearly that once he had even asked one of his playmates if he too had heard it. But that echo of days behind him was for his ears alone, for he was meant for great things. He had been born on the day the spirits gave First Horse to the True Humans. First Horse had made a circle of tracks around his birth lodge that was as perfect in its roundness as a full moon. This he had been told since he could remember, and Shadow yearned for the chance to fulfill the prophesies of his elders.

“What will be my new name, Father? After I seek my visions?”

“That is not for me to decide,” Shaggy Hump said. “My only task is to choose your Naming Father. It is very important. I am waiting for a sign or a dream to tell me who I must choose. Your Naming Father must be a
puhakut
of great power. Greater than great!”

Shadow grinned and rolled back onto the robe, feeling a cool wind come under the hide walls from a new quarter. It was at this moment that he heard his playmate, Whip, his boyish voice squeaking as he yelled excitedly.

Crawling forward, Shadow stuck his head out underneath the hides. “Whip! What are you yelling about?”

Shaggy Hump lay back down on his cushion of robes.

“The Corn People are coming to camp with us, Shadow!”

Shadow looked back at his father, who smirked with more than a little interest, for the Burnt Meat People seldom came across other bands of True Humans across the far ranges of their hunting grounds.