CHAPTER FOURTEEN
From the top of the mesa, mounted on his fine pinto horse of brown and white, Broken Buffalo Horn frowned at the scene below. His Comanche friend, Lost His Thumb, lowered the binoculars he had taken off a dead bluecoat four years ago. He still wore the blue kepi, doctored with eagle feathers, ribbons, and the scalp of the white-eyed soldier who had worn the cap and carried the see-far glasses. Frowning at the older warrior, Lost His Thumb said, “Now we know why your son did not respond to our signals.”
The buffalo headdress was heavy on Broken Buffalo Horn’s head, but not as heavy as his heart. The shirtless Comanche nodded briefly, but did not look away from the scene below.
By his best count, a cruel Texan had captured about forty or so mustangs from the mountains, and was driving them north toward the settlements in the dry country near the Pecos River to the west. Those horses would give a man like Broken Buffalo Horn more power than he already had in the camps in the Staked Plains of Comanchería. But the cruel Texan had something else, something more valuable to the holy man. He had Broken Buffalo Horn’s only son.
Oh, the holy man had six other children spread among his four wives, but those were all girls. And what good was a girl to a Comanche man of medicine, a man of vision? His son had been sent out on his vision quest two weeks ago. When he had not returned to the village that had moved down south for the winter, Broken Buffalo Horn, Lost His Thumb, and Killed A Skunk had ridden out of the village, while the others—including Broken Buffalo Horn’s wives, daughters, and one granddaughter—prepared to return to the Staked Plains to find shelter in the canyons that cut through the country of Comanche medicine. To a place protected from the bluecoats, the spotted death, and the more and more white travelers who dared cross what once had been territory owned and ruled and settled by only the Comanches and their allies.
“What has this white man done to your son’s left arm?” Killed A Skunk asked.
“It is a way to keep him a prisoner.” Broken Buffalo Horn spoke with finality, as though he knew, when in fact he had no idea what had happened to his son, a boy who had barely seen thirteen winters. Nor did he understand why his son seemed to be helping the one white man. And what power must a white man like this one have to turn a Comanche teen’s son into a tree!
A horse bolted from the trotting herd, and the boy taken prisoner by the hated Texan turned his horse quickly and with only one hand holding the reins, galloped, pivoted, twisted, and intercepted the young colt. Within moments, the boy had managed to send the horse back into the herd while the white man—the one white man—rode at the rear, keeping the mustangs moving, not even offering to help.
But these Texans were lazy men.
Killed A Skunk whistled. Your son rides like he is part of a horse.”
“With only one arm,” Lost His Thumb said, his own head bobbing with admiration.
That, at least, made Broken Buffalo Horn smile briefly.
After putting the see-far glasses into the leather container behind his Comanche saddle, Lost His Thumb said, “We can ride down easily and kill this Texan. Take his horses. Return to our camp. They will sing songs about us.”
“And about your son,” added Killed A Skunk.
“We would have many horses,” Lost His Thumb said, then quickly added, “You will have many horses. And we will have whatever you think is right for us to have.”
“We will also have another scalp. There will be one less white man for us to kill.” Killed A Skunk waited for Broken Buffalo Horn’s response.
“Not yet,” he said at last. If this white man had the power to turn a Comanche boy’s arm into a tree branch, what other magic might he hold? Even if his power vanished, the white man, by his dress, was Texan, and Texans had killed many Comanches. It would be too easy, since the Texan had a gun and the only son of Broken Buffalo Horn had one good hand, and another arm turned into wood, for the Texan to kill Broken Buffalo Horn’s son. And Broken Buffalo Horn was nearing his seventieth summer. He knew he likely would never be able to have another son. Just weakling daughters. That thought made him spit.
“No,” he said, and nodded at the finality of his decision and his wisdom. “We will follow this powerful Texan with much magic. Perhaps we will learn where he gains this power. Imagine if we could turn all of the Texans, all of the bluecoats, all of the Mexicans, and white-eyed fools who cross Comanchería into trees.”
His friends nodded at the old man’s wisdom.
“We would never be cold in winter with all the wood to burn,” Killed A Skunk said.
“And have poles for our teepees without having to go into the hills or along the riverbanks,” Lost His Thumb added.
“And,” Broken Buffalo Horn said, “This man is taking the mustangs to the north and west. Let us follow him at a distance, and let him do the hard work, him and my son who appears to be doing most of the work.”
“Because he is Comanche,” Lost His Thumb said. “He knows how to work, unlike this lazy, though very powerful, Texan.”
Broken Buffalo Horn nodded his approval although he did not care much for the interruption. He continued. “They are taking the herd of fine ponies northward. That is closer to our own camp for the spring and summer. So when we kill the Texan and free our son, take the scalp and all of those fine ponies, we will not have as far to drive them.”
It was the right decision. Broken Buffalo Horn knew this.
He pointed to the dead spines of a cactus and dried weeds that would burn. “Light a fire, my friend, Lost His Thumb,” the medicine man ordered. “We must let my son know we are here, that we see him. That we follow him, that we will come—or we will die—and we will rescue him from this powerful enemy. We will find a way to make his arm a Comanche arm again. One not like a piñon branch.”
“Unless it is a juniper,” Killed A Skunk said.
Lost His Thumb almost laughed, but the way the medicine man glared at Killed A Skunk told Lost His Thumb he should show respect and remain quiet. He gathered the tinder and wood, broke the dead cactus spine into manageable kindling, and used the iron and flint to start the flame. Killed A Skunk rode around the area on his yellow horse, never dismounting for he was a Comanche. Leaning out of the saddle, he picked up wood that would work for the signal fire.
Broken Buffalo Horn sat on the back of his horse and watched the riders and the horses stretch into a long line. Eventually, he removed his buffalo headdress, wiped the sweat off his forehead, then looked down at the dust-covered, heavy headdress with the left horn broken off. It had been broken off by the powerful bullet from one of the heavy rifles favored by the white men who killed buffalo. He’d changed his name from Brave Deer to Broken Buffalo Horn, which made him even more powerful.
Lost His Thumb earned his name after drinking too much of the white man’s firewater and then playing with a white man’s trap for beaver. He could have changed his name to Killed A Bluecoat, or Sees-Far-With-Bluecoat-Glasses, but he had become used to having four fingers on his left hand. He had killed that bluecoat by himself, charging when no one else would, armed with only tomahawk and knife, and the man had shot with his long gun, but missed. Lost His Thumb was upon him, and seeing his bravery and what he did to the man whose scalp he took, turned the other bluecoats into women. They fled across the creek and did not stop raising dust until they were back in their fort.
Killed A Skunk wasn’t the most respected names in the village, but the skunk he had killed had been rabid, and would have wreaked death and madness and destruction on the camp had he not had the courage to rush up to the deadly, diseased, stinking animal and put a lance through its body. Younger, more accomplished warriors had not dared approach such an animal. Killed A Skunk’s name might make Kiowas and Comancheros laugh, but no one laughed in front of the warrior.
Yes, Broken Buffalo Horn was a powerful man among all the Comanche villages. He had strong men of power, brave men, and good friends. Broken Buffalo Horn knew he needed such friends, such brave men, on the journey they were about to take. They would need even more strength and more power to free Broken Buffalo Horn’s son from the terrible Texan.