Comanche Moon ld-4 Read online

  Augustus's head was still swimming. The horizon still rocked, but talking to Woodrow helped a little. Woodrow Call was too hardheaded to grow confused about up and down; he was never likely to get sky and land mixed up.

  "He's not going to catch Kicking Wolf," Gus said. "I expect the reason he's rarely run off from is because he's careful who he chases.

  If you ask me, he usually just chases the ones he knows he can catch." Call had been thinking the same thing, though he had no intention of saying it in front of the men.

  He didn't like to be doubting his captain, but it did seem to him that Captain Scull had met his match in the game of chase and pursuit. Kicking Wolf had had nearly a day's start, and the shifting weather made tracking difficult. Inish Scull didn't like to turn his troop, any more than he liked to turn his own head when spitting tobacco juice. He seemed to think he could keep an enemy ahead of him by sheer force of will, until he wore him down. But Kicking Wolf had lured the Captain onto the llano, which was his place. He wasn't subject to anybody's will--not even Buffalo Hump's, if reports were true.

  Then Augustus spotted something moving in the sky, the first sign he had seen that there was life anywhere around.

  "Look, Woodrow--I think that's a goose," Gus said, pointing at the dark in the gray sky. "If it comes in range I mean to try and shoot it. A fat goose would make a fine breakfast." "Geese fly in flocks," Call reminded him. "Why would one goose be flying around out here?" "Well, maybe it got lost," Gus suggested.

  "No, birds don't get lost," Call said.

  "A bird dumb enough to fly over this place could well get lost," Gus said. "This place is so empty an elephant could get lost in it." The bird, when it came in sight, proved to be a great blue heron. It flew right over the troop; several of the men looked up at it and felt some relief. All of them were oppressed by the gray emptiness they were travelling in. The sight of a living thing, even a bird, stirred their hopes a little.

  "I see something else," Gus said, pointing to the west. He saw a moving spot, very faint, but moving in their direction, he felt sure.

  Call looked and could see nothing, which vexed him. Time and again he had to accept the fact that Augustus McCrae had him beaten, when it came to vision. Gus's sight just reached out farther than Call's--t was the plain fact.

  "I expect it's Famous Shoes," Gus said. "It's about time that rascal got back." "He ain't a rascal, he's our scout," Call said. "What's rascally about him?" "Well, he's independent," Augustus commented. "What's the use of a scout who goes off and don't bring back a report but every two or three days? And besides that, he beat me at cards." "An Indian who can beat a white man at cards is a rascal for sure," Long Bill volunteered.

  "I expect it just took him this long to find Kicking Wolf's track," Call said.

  A few minutes later they sighted the Canadian River, a narrow watercourse cutting through a shallow valley. There was not a tree along it.

  "Now, that's a disappointment," Augustus said.

  "Here we are at the river, and there's not any dern wood. We'll have to burn our stirrups if we want to make a fire." Then Call saw Famous Shoes--Inish Scull had stopped to receive his report. What amazed Call was that Famous Shoes had arrived so swiftly. Only moments before, it seemed, the scout had been so far away that Call hadn't even been able to see him; but now he was there.

  "I'm about to quit rangering, if it means coming to a place where I can't tell up from down," Augustus said, annoyed that there seemed no likelihood of a good roaring fire beside the Canadian.

  Call had heard that threat from Augustus before-- had heard it, in fact, whenever Gus was vexed--and he didn't take it seriously.

  "You don't know how to do anything besides ride horses and shoot guns," Call told him.

  "If you was to quit rangering you'd starve." "No, the fact is I know how to gather up women," Augustus said. "I'll find me a rich fat woman and I'll marry her and live in ease for the rest of my days." "Now you're talking bosh," Call said. "If you're so good at marrying, why ain't you married Clara?" "It's far too cold to be talking about such as that," Augustus said, vexed that his friend would bring up Clara Forsythe, a woman far too independent for her own good, or anybody else's good either--his in particular. He had proposed to Clara the day he met her, in her father's store in Austin, years before, but she had hesitated then and was still hesitating, despite the fact that he had courted her fast and furiously, all that time. Clara would admit that she loved him--she was not the standoffish sort--but she would not agree to marry him, a fact that pained him deeply; despite all he had done, and all he could do, Clara still considered herself free to entertain other suitors. What if she married one? What could he do then but be brokenhearted all his life?

  It was not a circumstance he wanted to be reminded of, on a morning so cold that he couldn't tell up from down--and he particularly resented being reminded of it by Woodrow Call, a man inept with women to such a degree that he had entangled himself with a whore. Maggie Tilton, the whore in question, was plenty pretty enough to marry, though so far, Woodrow had shown no sign of a willingness to marry her.

  "You're no man to talk, shut up before I give you a licking," Gus said. It was an intolerable impertinence on the part of Woodrow Call to even mention Clara's name, especially at a time when they were having to struggle hard just to avoid freezing.

  Call ignored the threat. Any mention of Clara Forsythe would provoke Augustus into a display of fisticuffso; it always had. Call himself avoided Clara when possible. He only went into the Forsythe store when he needed to buy cartridges or some other necessity. Though certainly pretty well beyond the norm, Clara Forsythe was so forward in speech that a man of good sense would plan his day with a view to avoiding her.

  Even when she was only selling Call a box of cartridges or a tool of some sort, Clara would always find a way to direct a few ^ws to him, though--in his view--no ^ws were called for, other than a thank you. Instead of just handing him his change and wrapping up his purchase, Clara would always come out with some statement, seemingly mild, that would nonetheless manage to leave him with the impression that there was something not quite right about his behaviour. He could never figure out quite what he did to annoy Clara, but her tone with him always carried a hint of annoyance; a strong enough hint, in fact, that he tried to time his visits to the afns, when her father usually tended the store.

  Maggie Tilton, the whore he liked to see, never gave him the sense that there was anything wrong with his behaviour--if anything, Maggie swung too far in the other direction. She could see no wrong in him at all, which made him feel almost as uncomfortable as Clara's needlegrass criticisms. Maybe the fact that one was a whore and the other respectable had something to do with it--in any case Augustus McCrae was the last person whose opinion he felt he needed to listen to. Gus's mood bobbed up and down like a cork, depending on whether Clara had been sweet to him or sour, soft or sharp, friendly or aloof. In Call's view no man, and particularly not a Texas Ranger, ought to allow himself to be blown back and forth by a woman's opinion. It wasn't right, and that was that.

  Long Bill was close enough to hear Gus threaten to give Call a licking, a threat he had heard uttered before.

  "What's got him riled?" Long Bill inquired.

  "None of your business. Get gone, you fool!" Gus said.

  "You must have swallowed a badger, Gus--I swear you're surly," Long Bill said. "I wonder if Famous Shoes has seen any wood we could make into a nice fire, while we're wandering." Before anyone could answer, Inish Scull, their captain, gave a loud yell of rage, wheeled Hector, and spurred him into a great lumbering run toward the west. The sleet spumed up in clouds behind him. Inish Scull didn't wave for the troop to follow him, or give any indication that he cared whether the twelve rangers came with him or not. He just charged away, leaving Famous Shoes standing alone by a large, steaming pile of horse turds which Hector had just deposited on the prairie.

  "Well, there goes Captain Scull--I expect he's sig
hted his prey," Long Bill said, pulling his rifle from its scabbard. "We best whip up or we'll lose him." The troop, with Gus at its head, immediately clattered off after Captain Scull, but Call didn't follow, not at once. He didn't fear losing contact with the Captain while he was riding Hector--an elephant could not leave a much plainer track. He wanted to know what Famous Shoes had said to provoke the charge.

  "Is it Kicking Wolf?" he asked the Kickapoo. "Is it going to be a fight?" Famous Shoes was a slight man with a deceptive gait. He never seemed to hurry, yet he had no trouble keeping up with a troop of horsemen. Even if the horsemen charged off, as Inish Scull and the whole troop had just done, Famous Shoes would usually manage to catch up with them by the time a campfire was made and coffee boiling. He moved fast, and yet no one ever saw him moving fast, a thing Call marvelled at. Sometimes he responded to questions and sometimes he didn't--but even if he chose to answer a given question, the answer would usually lay a little sideways to the question as it had been phrased.

  At the moment he was looking closely at the smoky green pile of Hector's droppings.

  "The Buffalo Horse has been eating prickly pear," he said. "I guess he don't like this icy grass." "Kicking Wolf," Call repeated. "Is it Kicking Wolf they went off after?" Famous Shoes looked at Call with mild surprise, his usual look when responding to direct questions. The look left Call with the feeling that he had missed something--what, he didn't know.

  "No, Kicking Wolf is over by the Rio Pecos," Famous Shoes said. "The Captain will have to ride a faster horse if he wants to catch Kicking Wolf. The Buffalo Horse is too slow." That was Call's opinion too, but he didn't say it.

  Then Famous Shoes turned away from the dung pile and gestured toward the west.

  "Kicking Wolf didn't really want those horses--not the geldings," he said. "He only wanted the three studhorses, to breed to his young mares. Those are good young studhorses. They will make him some fine colts." "If he only kept three, what'd he do with the others?" Call asked.

  "He butchered them," Famous Shoes said.

  "His tribe took the meat, but the women didn't do a very good job of butchering all those horses. There is plenty of meat left. We can take it if we want to." "If we ain't going to catch Kicking Wolf today, maybe the Captain will let Deets cook up some of the meat," Call said. "We're all hungry." Deets was a young black man, making his second trip with the troop. He had been found sleeping in the stables one morning, covered with dust and hay. He had escaped from a large group of stolen slaves who were being driven into Mexico by the famous chief Wildcat, a Lipan who had perfected the practice of selling stolen slaves to rich Mexican ranchers. Call had been about to chase the boy off, for trespassing on ranger property, but Inish Scull liked Deets's looks and kept him to do the stable work. He was made a cook one day when the Captain happened to taste a stew he had cooked up for some black families who were at work building homes for the legislators.

  Famous Shoes didn't reply, when Call mentioned eating. He seemed to live on coffee, rarely taking food with the rangers, though he .was known to have a fondness for potatoes. Often he would slip two or three raw spuds in his pouch, before setting off on a scout. Raw potatoes and a little jerky seemed to be what he lived on.

  Call knew that he ought to be hurrying after the troop, but he could not resist lingering for a moment with Famous Shoes, in hopes of learning a little bit about tracking and scouting. Famous Shoes didn't look smart, yet he made his way across the llano as easily as Call would cross a street. Captain Scull was particular about scouts, as he was about everything. He didn't trust anybody--not even his wife, by some reports--yet he allowed Famous Shoes to wander for days at a stretch, even when they were in hostile territory. Call himself knew little about the Kickapoo tribe--they were supposed to be enemies of the Comanches, but what if they weren't?

  What if, instead of helping them find the Indians, Famous Shoes was really helping the Indians find them?

  Call thought he would try one more query, just to see if Famous Shoes could be persuaded to answer the question he was asked.

  "I thought there was plentiful antelope, up here on the plains," he said. "I've et antelope and it's a sight tastier than horsemeat. But we ain't seen an antelope this whole trip.

  Where'd they all go?" "You had better just fill your belly with that fresh horsemeat," Famous Shoes said, with an amused look. "The antelope are over by the Purgatory River right now. There is good sweet grass along the Purgatory River this year." "I don't know why this grass wouldn't be sweet enough for them," Call said. "I know it's icy right now, but this ice will melt in a day or two." Famous Shoes was amused by the young ranger's insistence. It was not the young man's place to question the antelope. Antelope were free to seek the grass they preferred--they did not have to live by the Palo Duro, where the grass was known to be bitter, just because some Texans liked antelope meat better than horsemeat. It was typical of the whites, though. Seventeen horses were dead and there was plenty of tasty meat left on their carcasses. Those horses would never eat grass again, sweet or bitter; only the three stallions Kicking Wolf had kept would know the flavor of grass again. Yet, here was this young man, Call, expecting to find antelope standing around waiting to be shot. Only buffalo were peculiar enough to stand around waiting to be shot by the white men, which was why the numbers of buffalo were declining. There were plenty of antelope, though-- they lived wherever the grass was sweetest, along the Purgatory or the Canadian or the Washita or the Rio Pecos.

  "I don't think we will see any antelope today," Famous Shoes said--and then he left. The rangers had galloped away to the west, but Famous Shoes turned north. It vexed Call a little. The man was their scout, yet he never seemed to travel in the same direction as the troop.

  "I'd be curious to know where you're heading," he asked, trotting after the scout, in a polite tone. After all, the man hadn't really done anything wrong--he just did things that seemed peculiar.

  Famous Shoes had been moving in a light trot when Call followed him and asked him the question. He looked up at Call, but he didn't slow his motion.

  "I'm going to see my grandmother," he said.

  "She lives up on the Washita with one of my sisters. I guess they are still there, if they haven't moved." "I see," Call said. He felt foolish for having asked.

  "My grandmother is old," Famous Shoes said.

  "She may want to tell me a few more stories before she dies." "Well, then, that's fine," Call said, but Famous Shoes didn't hear him. He had begun to sing a little song, as he trotted north.

  Famous Shoes' voice was soft, and the wind still keened. Call heard only a snatch or two of the song, before Famous Shoes was so far away that the song was lost in the wind.

  A little perplexed, feeling that he might somehow have been out of order, Call turned his horse and began to lope west, after the troop. The tracks of Hector, the Buffalo Horse, were as easy to follow as a road. He wondered, as he loped over the cold plains, what made Indians so much like women. The way Famous Shoes made him feel, when he asked a question, was not unlike how Clara Forsythe made him feel, when he ventured into her store. With both the Indian and the women he was always left with the feeling that, without meaning to, he had made some kind of mistake.

  Before he could worry the matter much more he saw a horseman approaching, back along the trail Hector had made. For a moment, he was fearful enough to heft his rifle--out on the plains, a Comanche could pop out at you at any time. Maybe one had got between him and the troop and was planning to cut him off.

  Then, a moment later, he saw that it was only Gus, coming hell for leather back along the sleety trail.

  "Why'd you lag, Woodrow? We thought you'd been ambushed," Gus said, a little out of breath from his rapid ride.

  "Why no, I was just talking to Famous Shoes," Call said. "You didn't need to lather your horse." "We heard that whooping last night--y could have been ambushed," Augustus reminded him.

  "I ain't ambushed, let's go," Call said.
r />   "The boys will eat all the breakfast if we don't hurry." Augustus was annoyed. His friend could at least have thanked him--af all, he had put his own life at risk, coming back alone to look for him.

  But then, the fact was, Woodrow Call just wasn't the thanking kind.

  The morning Inez Scull first called Jake Spoon into her bedroom, she was sitting on a blue velvet stool. The bedroom was in the Sculls' fine brick mansion on Shoal Creek, the first brick house in Austin, the rangers had been told. Jake had only been with the rangers three months at the time, working mainly as a kind of orderly for Captain Scull. His chief task was to groom Hector, and get him saddled when the Captain required him. Now and again Captain Scull would dispatch Jake to run an errand for Madame Scull--?Madame Scull" was how she preferred to be addressed. Usually the errand would consist of picking up packages for her at one of the more prominent stores. Jake had come to Texas with a group of ragged settlers from Kansas; he had never seen such buying as the Sculls routinely indulged in. The Captain was always ordering new guns, or saddlery, or hats or gloves or spyglasses. The big dining room table in the Scull mansion was always littered with catalogues of all descriptions--catalogues of combs or dresses or other frippery for Madame Scull, or knives or fine shotguns or microscopes or other gadgets for the Captain.