Spread-eagled back downwards, with wrists and ankles secured to stakes driven firmly into the ground, the Ysabel Kid peered through the gloom towards the conical roof of the tipi above him. He was forced to admit that he could only blame himself for his present predicament. Which did not make him feel any better about being in it.
Having ended the second duel, he had known that he could not stay longer in the Kweharehnuhs’ village. Not only did convention demand that he should leave, but he had felt sure that Pohawe would make other attempts to remove him if he stayed. For some reason or other, the woman wanted him dead. So, having no wish to be forced into more duels or to be poisoned by Pohawe if she could not find further challengers, he had announced his departure.
Understanding at least part of the Kid’s motives, and approving of them, Ten Bears had given his consent for the Texan to leave. However, the dance had not been cancelled. It was to continue, even though its guest-of-honor would no longer be present. From comments the Kid had heard passed during the afternoon, the allocation of ammunition was to take place the following day. That too had been an inducement to continue with the celebrations.
While collecting his property from Wolf Runner’s tipi, the Kid had heard enough to warn him that the allocation might not be peaceful. The braves started chanting the words of the Kweharehnuh war song, then a warrior had interrupted the singing to recount the story of his greatest, bravest deed. Taken with all he had seen earlier, the Kid had known that he must not delay in taking a warning to Dusty. Unless the allocation went off without a hitch, the braves would commence an attack.
The Kid had been struck down and captured on the outskirts of the village. Hurtling from a tipi’s entrance, an all-but naked brave had tackled him around the knees. Before he could resist, three more had pounced upon him. The back of a tomahawk’s head had collided with his skull and he had known no more until recovering in what his nose had warned was the tipi of the medicine woman.
Going by the reduced volume of noise from the dance, the tipi was situated some distance from the village. That figured. A medicine man or woman often set up an establishment well clear of other human habitations, to permit a greater secrecy and increased freedom to carry out his, or her, duties.
The Kid was alone in the tipi, but he knew that it did not greatly enhance his chances of escape. Having already tested the strength and security of his bonds, he knew that he could achieve little or nothing against them. A slow and painful death lay ahead for him—and for many of the people at Hell—if he could not regain his freedom.
A memory stirred at the back of the Kid’s mind, prodded into life by his realization of where he was being held prisoner. On the night before he had ridden away on his first war trail—to join the Confederate States’ Army—he had been visited by the Pehnanes’ respected senior medicine woman. She had been the midwife who had attended his birth and had subsequently taken a great interest in his welfare and career.
‘If you are ever in medicine trouble, Cuchilo,’ she had said, ‘call on me no matter where you are and I will help you.’
Well, the Kid figured that he could say he was in medicine trouble. Just about as deep and dangerous as a Pehnane tehnap could get. Relaxing as much as his bonds would permit, he turned his eyes towards the apex of the tipi.
‘Raccoon Talker!’ he gritted, from deep down in his chest. ‘Cuchilo needs your help!’
Again and again he repeated the words, while sweat bathed his face and soaked his clothes. If there had been a witness present and able to see, he would have been amazed at the strain of concentration showing on the babyishly innocent dark brown face.
Close to four hundred miles away, at the reservation agent’s home on the lower slopes of Mount Scott in the Indian Nations, two thrilled, middle-aged white women were having their fortunes told by a genuine Comanche medicine woman.
Carefully selected for his post, liked, respected and trusted by the Comanche bands under his care, Agent Stanley Beckers was not the kind of man to allow exploitation of his charges. That he had given permission for Raccoon Talker to see the women was a tribute on his part to the man who had made the request. Few white men could have persuaded Long Walker, now pariaivo of the Pehnane band, to ask such a favor of the medicine woman. Stocky, bearded, almost Comanche in build, the rancher, who wore a vest made from the hide of a cattle-killing jaguar that had raided his herds, was such a man. His name was Charles Goodnight.
In addition to showing a pair of influential Eastern cattle buyers some excellent sport and hunting, Goodnight had found himself faced with the task of entertaining their wives. Being close to the Comanche reservation, he had visited his old friend Long Walker and had been given the answer to his dilemma. The wives had been delighted for the opportunity to meet an Indian medicine woman and it had been a rather amused Raccoon Talker who suggested that she should tell their fortunes.
Suddenly Raccoon Talker stopped speaking. She broke off her conventional phrases—which had been basically the same as those employed by fortune tellers of every nation, creed or cult—abruptly and without apparent reason. Stiffening on her seat, she stared with fixed intensity across the room. Her face set into lines of intense concentration and she showed signs of being under a tremendous mental strain.
‘Wha ... What’s wrong with her, Charles?’ gasped one of the white women, rising hurriedly and displaying alarm.
‘I don’t know,’ Goodnight admitted, looking at the buxom, white-haired, yet impressive figure in the spotlessly clean doeskin clothes and the finery of her profession. In fluent Comanche, employing the accent of the Tanima, Liver Eater, band, he went on, ‘Is all well with Raccoon Talker, brother?’
‘Keep quiet, Chaqueta Tigre,’ Long Walker requested politely. ‘Tell your women not to be alarmed. There is medicine power here and it is no longer a foolish game for the squaws.’
Goodnight nodded and passed on the information. To give them their due, the plump Eastern matrons fell silent. Each of them realized that she was participating in something of more importance than a mere fortune telling exercise such as they could have received from a gypsy peddler back home in New Jersey. For his part, the rancher knew they were witnessing something unique.
During the War Between the States, while riding with Captain Jack Cureton’s company of Texas Rangers, Goodnight had learned much about the Comanches and something of their religious beliefs. So he had a slight inkling of what might be happening. It had been during that same period he had won his Nemenuh man-name, Chaqueta Tigre, Jaguar Coat, by his courage and his always wearing that distinctive vest.
For almost three minutes Racoon Talker sat as if turned to stone. Only the increased rate at which her bosom rose and fell, in sympathy with her deep breathing, showed that she was still alive. No sound came from her and a deep silence dropped over the room. Then the glazed expression left her face and her eyes took on a new light of animation. Coming to her feet, she inclined her head in response to the white women’s exclamations of concern.
‘I must go,’ Raccoon Talker declared. ‘Cuchilo has need of my help, Long Walker, and I cannot give it in this place.’
‘Give the paleface chiefs’ squaws our apologies, Chaqueta Tigre, as you white men do such foolish things,’ the stocky, gray-haired pariaivo of the Pehnane requested, showing none of the anxiety that had been caused by the medicine woman’s words. ‘But we must leave this place.’
‘We need no apologies, brother,’ Goodnight replied. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? As you know, I owe your tawk 23 a debt and he is my friend.’
Colonel Goodnight—the military title was honorary, granted by virtue of his courage, reliability and powers of leadership—had never been a man to ignore a friend in trouble, nor to forget to repay a debt. All too well he knew just how much the success of his first big cattle drive across the Llano Estacado—which had helped pave the way for the economic recovery of Texas—had been due to the Kid’s knowledge and assistance. 24
‘Yes,’ Raccoon Talker put in. ‘Send word over the singing wires to the pariaivo of the Texans. Cuchilo says the time has come. The blue coats must ride to the Palo Duro.’
‘That I will do,’ Goodnight confirmed. ‘Is there anything more?’
‘I think not,’ the woman answered and turned from the table. ‘The rest is medicine, Chaqueta Tigre.’
‘That I understand,’ agreed the rancher and crossed to open the door with all the gallantry he would have displayed to the Governor’s wife or a saloon girl.
‘We will make medicine this night, Agent Beckers,’ Long Walker announced, as Raccoon Talker left the room. ‘Tell the soldier coats at the fort there is nothing to fear from our drumming.’
‘I will tell them,’ the agent promised. ‘I know your heart is strong for peace, my brother.’
‘What’s happening?’ asked the wife of the senior cattle buyer, after the Comanches had taken their departure and the rapid drumming of horses’ hooves had faded away.
‘It’s a personal matter, ma’am,’ Goodnight explained. ‘Long Walker told me to express his apologies for them having to leave so abruptly.’
‘But why did they have to leave?’ the second woman inquired.
‘Raccoon Talker heard that a young friend of ours needs help,’ the rancher replied. ‘She’s gone to give it.’
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ the first wife protested.
‘Neither did I, ma’am,’ Goodnight assured her. ‘The Comanche medicine people have powers which no white person can understand. If you will accept Mr. Becker’s hospitality for a short time longer. I have business to which I must attend. Stanley, I’ll deliver the message to the Fort.’
‘Sure, Charlie,’ Beckers agreed. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know we’d better do what Raccoon Talker said we should.’
Despite having been born and raised amongst the Pehnane, the Kid had little actual knowledge of medicine powers. They were the prerogative of the elite few, mostly older men or women. If a young person showed the correct gifts, he or she would be chosen for training and introduction to the medicine arts. Mostly the male candidate would be of a mild, dreamy nature and unlikely ever to gain acclaim in the martial subjects. From his youngest days, the Kid had been marked down as a warrior. So he had learned of medicine as an outsider, knowing only what it was claimed those in the inner circle could do.
How it had happened, the Kid could not say; but he knew that Raccoon Talker had ‘heard’ his message. More than that, he was certain that she had promised him her assistance and protection. Settling himself as comfortably as possible under the circumstances, he waited for the next development.
A lantern glowed and footsteps approached the tipi. Its door flaps were opened to let in a flood of light. Followed by a trio of war-painted tehnaps, Pohawe strode into the Kid’s presence. Having looked at the newcomers, the Kid devoted his attention to his surroundings. In addition to the usual paraphernalia of a medicine tipi he saw all his portable property had been brought in. The rifle, still in its medicine boot, leaned against his saddle and his gunbelt, carrying its usual armament, lay across its seat. At the opposite side of the tipi, encased in a medicine boot, leaned a long Sharps Model of 1859 rifle.
The latter weapon must be in the tipi so that it could absorb medicine power. Yet a rifle rarely received such treatment. Obviously it must be required for some special purpose.
‘What evil is this, witch-woman?’ the Kid demanded, swinging coldly contemptuous eyes towards Pohawe.
Anger showed on the woman’s face, brought there by the name that the Kid had applied to her. While a medicine woman was a person to be respected, a witch—who used her powers for evil—was regarded with revulsion.
‘You die, Cuchilo, Pohawe promised. ‘Not this night, but after the sun has gone down tomorrow, you will go to join your white father. There will be no living palefaces in the Palo Duro. I will not have them here.’
‘Does a woman lead the Kweharehnuh?’ the Kid mocked, looking at the braves. ‘Are the Antelopes like the foolish men in the Land Of The Grandmother, 25 waiting to be led by a warrior maid with a war lance—?’ 26
‘He talks well, Pohawe,’ snorted the biggest of the tehnaps. When he moved forward, he exhibited a very bad limp to his left leg. ‘We will see if he dies well—’
‘Not this night, Kills From Far Off,’ the medicine woman barked.
‘Why wait, witch woman?’ challenged the Kid. ‘Are you afraid that my medicine will strike you down?’
‘What dog of a half-breed ever had medicine?’ Pohawe snorted.
‘I know a half-breed bitch who thinks she has,’ replied the Kid.
For a moment, the Texan thought that he had pushed Pohawe too far. Rage twisted her features into almost bestial lines. Her hand reached towards the knife at a tehnap's waist. Then, with a visible effort of will, she relaxed.
‘It is well for you that I have chosen the time and how you are to die, half-breed. I want you alive to hear of the great thing I have done and will do.’
‘Then kill me now, witch woman,’ challenged the Kid. ‘Your words tire me and you will do no deeds worth listening to.’
‘You think not?’ Pohawe screeched. ‘I am the one who will guide the Nemenuh as they drive the palefaces from Comancheria.’
‘The Kweharehnuh are good warriors, those who are not led by a witch woman,’ the Kid told her. ‘But I don’t think they can drive out the white people.’
‘The other bands will ride with us,’ the medicine woman stated.
‘You couldn’t have been at the Fort Sorrel peace meeting,’ drawled the Kid. ‘The chiefs of the other bands were wise enough to know that not even the Nemenuh could win victory against the wheel-guns of the soldier-coats. So they made an honorable peace and will keep it.’
‘They were old fools and cowards, all of them!’ Pohawe snapped. ‘And their braves did not have many rifles. Every Kweharehnuh warrior carries a repeater and has bullets for it. Tomorrow we will have many more bullets. With them, we can fight and beat the soldier-coats. As for their slow wheel-guns, they are only good for shooting from far away at the tipis standing still in a village.’
‘When the news goes out that the Kweharehnuh are counting many coups and bringing in much loot,’ Kills From Far Off continued, ‘the brave-hearts eating the white man’s beef on the reservations will ride swiftly to join us.’
Looking from the tehnap to the woman, the Kid managed to school his expression into one of amused disbelief. Yet, in his heart, he knew that they had been speaking the truth. Armed with repeaters, against the Springfield single-shot rifles and carbines with which the U.S. Army was equipped, the Kweharehnuhs would have a decided advantage in firepower. Nor would batteries of cannon be of any great use against a highly mobile force of attacking braves who, knowing every inch of the terrain, would select with care the places from which they launched their assaults.
What was more, the couple had been correct in their summation of how the news would be received by the restless young braves on the reservation. They would be determined to share in the Kweharehnuh’s glory. So the very thing that Governor Howard had feared—and which the floating outfit had come to Hell to try to avert —a bloody, costly Indian war would have to be fought. Certainly many people of both races would be slaughtered if Pohawe had her way.
Ever since the challenges by the two brothers had been issued, the Kid had sensed that they were instigated by Pohawe. At last he could see possible motives for her wishing to have him killed. On learning of his arrival in the village, she must have come to the wrong conclusions concerning the reason for his visit. She could have believed that some hint of her plans had leaked out and he had been sent in an attempt to persuade Ten Bears to stay at peace—if only nominally—with the white people. Or she had suspected that the Kid was connected with Hell and had not wanted word of the preparations being made for war to be carried to the citizens.
In either case, she would have wanted him out of the way and the brothers’ hatred had offered her the means. Maybe she had talked them into the belief that they must avenge their brother. The plan had gone wrong for her, but she clearly did not intend to let things go at that.
There was only one hope for the Kid. That his faith in Raccoon Talker’s medicine powers would be justified.
‘The brave-hearts on the reservations won’t follow you,’ the Kid warned, trying to sound a whole heap more confident than he felt. ‘Not when you, like them, depend on the white men for weapons and ammunition.’
‘That will not be so after tomorrow,’ Pohawe replied and the other three tehnaps directed knowing grins at Kills From Far Off.
‘Paruwa Semenho is a man of honor,’ the Kid stated. ‘If the white people keep their bargain, so will he.’
‘They will not keep all of their bargain,’ the woman countered. ‘There will be no pretended making of medicine tomorrow.’
‘Pretended?’ queried the Kid. ‘I have heard it said that the great witch woman of the Kweharehnuh does not know how such medicine is made.’
‘It is false medicine,’ declared the youngest tehnap.
‘So the witch woman tells you,’ answered the Kid. ‘But that is because she doesn’t understand it. Perhaps she does not have true medicine power herself.’
‘You are asking to die, Cuchilo,’ Pohawe hissed, playing into his hands.
‘Then have me killed,’ the Kid suggested. ‘I say you can’t, because I am protected by a greater power than you know. Try to kill me, witch woman, and see if I speak with a crooked tongue.’
‘Kill him, One Arrow!’ the woman spat at the youngest tehnap.
‘Try it if you dare, namae’enuh,’ 27 jeered the Kid, using the most insulting term in the Comanches’ vocabulary as he saw the brave hesitate.
There ought to have been sufficient time for Raccoon Talker to have made her medicine. If not, going by One Arrow’s response to the deadly insult, the Kid could count himself lucky if he stayed alive long enough to come under her promised protection.
Spitting out a curse, the young tehnap snatched his knife from its sheath. Watched by his companions and the medicine woman, he took two strides in the Texan’s direction. Then he stopped as if he had run into an invisible wall. Fright and shock contorted his face and he collapsed in what looked like a fit.
Startled ejaculations burst from the other men and they backed away involuntarily. Brave enough in the face of mortal dangers, they were unnerved by the manifestation of powers beyond their understanding. One Arrow was known to suffer from such seizures, but the attack had come on just too conveniently for it to be discounted on natural grounds.
‘Kill him, Small Post Oak!’ Pohawe screeched, sounding frightened.
‘Not me!’ the brave addressed by the woman replied. ‘Come, brothers. We leave this place.’
Snatching up the Sharps rifle, Kills From Far Off followed his companions as they dragged One Arrow from the tipi. Pohawe watched them go, seething with fury, yet shivering with fear.
‘Cuchilo,’ the woman hissed, glaring her hatred but keeping her distance. ‘If those men won’t follow me tomorrow, I will return and kill you slowly. And if I come, no medicine power will save you.’