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Sleeping Bear settled on top of the hill in a spot that let him look in all directions around the site. Below the others ate. They would have to ride on soon. He might not get to eat at all, probably wouldn’t. Bent Feather’s lesson to him. His stomach felt as empty as the wind that tugged at the ends of his braided hair. Once, only a short year ago he had gone up to sit on top of a giant pink spirit rock to wait for a sign and discover himself. For three days and three nights he ate nothing and soon he began to have visions he hoped foretold his future as a brave. That wasn’t the case now. He wondered if he should have stayed on the reservation. Many boys his age did. He wanted so to be a warrior and Bent Feather seemed determined not to let him become one. He had let him come along, but Sleeping Bear got all the chores. Gather water, like a squaw. Start the fires. Stay with the horses.
He looked in each direction, saw nothing. He thought about how he could get back into Bent Feather’s good graces. What if he had come back with the young girl with hair the color of fire tied on a rope behind his horse? He would have had coup then.
Movement caught his eye. Three black buzzards circled as they rode the wind, not the way they would above a kill, but for the joy of being aloft and going round and round. To his left he saw a red-tailed hawk swoop down from a high bare limb to grab at a bit of game in the thick grass, a mouse perhaps. There should be a message in this. He saw no approaching riders. Sitting here and watching wasn’t getting him any glory.
Then a road runner came strutting out of a copse of cottonwood trees, its tail low as it moved. When it stopped, the tail lifted up, jaunty. It looked around. Squawk. Sleeping Bear could hear it from way up where he sat. It ran ahead, grabbed a snake, and began to swing it, striking the snake’s head against the hard ground again and again until the snake was limp. It carried it proudly in its mouth as it strutted away.
He took that to be his sign. No denying that. His desired namesake was taking action. He should do the same; he would do the same. The omen drove him, overcame his fear of Bent Feather. He would come back to them in glory, with coup, not in shame. Sleeping Bear rose and slipped down the back way. He eased his horse out of the remuda and led it far enough away until he could hop on it. Then he rode hard and fast back toward that ranch.
Button stabbed and chopped at the weeds with the hoe. Stupid weeds. She was starting to wish she’d stopped to grab a bonnet on the way out. Now she’d get all pink and sore. But she still fumed too much. It’d do her good to stay with the chores until she calmed down. A worm poked its head out of the loose soil. She swung at it, wanting to cut it in half, but she missed and it yanked itself back into its hole.
That silly Justin, in trying to show off or whatever he was up to on her behalf, had put them in real danger. Just stupid! No getting around that. You have to be on your toes at all times out here. Life here has its occasional good moments, but it’s nothing to be funning about or your scalp might just be tied to some Comanche belt.
“Yo, Button!”
She turned around, saw Scamp and Justin coming toward her. They were leading Mr. Dobbs, Aunt Sara’s dappled gray gelding she used to pull the buggy and do any other work needed on the small ranch. She could see the butt of the muzzleloader sticking out of the homemade leather scabbard that hung from the saddle. At least Sara would have the Winchester and shotgun at the house should any trouble come tumbling along their way, as it all too often did.
“Where do you two think you’re going?” She spoke to Scamp, ignored Justin.
“We finished with our chores. Mom said we could go and try to fetch in a turkey or two.”
“You sure you want him along? He’s apt to run right at them yelling?” She nodded toward Justin but still declined to make eye contact.
“He’ll be fine.” He punched Justin lightly in the shoulder. “Won’t you?”
Justin almost managed a feeble grin, didn’t quite make it.
That made Button feel better. At least he was uncomfortable, maybe suffering. Perhaps he could learn a thing or two yet.
She turned back to her weeding and got after a patch of something that didn’t belong in the rows of root vegetables. When Sara sold the vegetables to Mr. Morton at the General Store that would be half the cash crop they had, aside from what they made from the goats. So weeding was important she told herself. When they lost plants, or the Indians stole a goat, it came right out of the family purse. Though she pretended not to notice, she heard them mount, both on the same horse, and ride away. Button didn’t look up. The sun was getting bright enough to make her wince. Once they were gone a spell she might just slip back and put on that bonnet. There had been a time she didn’t want Justin to see her wearing it. Now she didn’t give a big owl whoop.
Those two would probably do some splashing in the creek while they were down that way. She wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t manage to round up a single turkey for the table. Boys. What messes they could be.
Hardly twenty minutes had passed when she heard a horse galloping her way. She let out an irritated puff of air. If those two were rushing back with some new but not real danger she would just ignore them.
The beating hooves grew closer. Two things crossed her mind in rapid succession. The hooves beating the ground didn’t sound like that of a shod horse. She doubted too that old Mr. Dobbs was capable of that hurried of a pace.
Button spun and screamed just as the thick middle of a bow bounced hard off the side of her head. She felt herself lifted into the air and thrown across the back of a paint horse, caught just a glimpse of a Comanche close up, closer than she’d ever seen, though she had shot at a few from a distance. The firm leggings-covered legs whipped off the horse as it came to a stop. The Comanche dropped to the ground and bound her wrists to her ankles beneath the horse. She started to scream again but was stopped by a strip of old terrible tasting soiled cloth he tied across her open mouth as a gag. He was back on the horse and they were off at a gallop as she heard a yell from the house. A shot sounded. She saw the bullet plow up a small row and send up a cloud of dust off to the side of them. Sara must have shot again, but they were moving fast and were soon out of range. She heard another shot anyway and knew Sara was wasting a bullet out of frustration. She could do little else. The two boys were off with the family’s only horse. Sara could hardly saddle up little Boxo.
Button struggled at her leather bindings. He swung his bow again, caught her on the back of the head. It didn’t knock her out, though it stung. Still, she realized the useless of struggling, for now. She tried to relax and save her strength as they galloped up the slope and were soon far out of sight of the small ranch house.
A couple of the shots coming from the house whizzed close to Sleeping Bear’s head, one clipping the turkey feather he wore in his hair in half. He felt alive, full of spirit, riding hard with his hair whipping back, the horse’s muscles surging beneath him, and his captive slave tied in front of him. Bent Feather himself would have to acknowledge him now.
Looking back often he finally slowed his mare, let her breathe. The paleface female began to squirm and try to get free as soon as he slowed. He’d used good leather ties, knew she couldn’t get away. He wasn’t far from the camp. To do this right he had to bring her in as a captive, his slave. That was the right way to win coup, to impress Bent Feather.
Scamp and Justin heard the scream and glanced at each other, though Scamp had to turn his head back to do so.
“Sure sounded like Button,” Justin said.
“She wouldn’t let out a hoot like that unless she meant it.” Scamp turned Mr. Dobbs’ head though they were nearly to the creek, tall stands of cottonwood and chaparral on either side of the trail. He gave the gelding his heels, hard this time, but the best the horse could do was to get up to a trot.
Poor Mr. Dobbs worked himself up to quite a lather, even when going the slowish pace he did. As they neared the house Justin could see Aunt Sara standing in front of the door, holding the Winchester.
As soon as they were in shouting distance she yelled, “A Comanche took off with Button!” She pointed with the rifle.
No sense going to the house. Scamp turned the horse and they headed off at a pace Justin doubted the gelding could keep up much longer. Two young boys with a muzzleloader on a single tired horse. Fat lot of good that might do. Within minutes Scamp yelled. He’d spotted the trail and they were on it.
Justin glanced back. Aunt Sara grew smaller and smaller, but she didn’t look any more hopeful than he felt inside.
Sleeping Bear dismounted, watched her struggle harder now that they’d stopped for a moment. He’d break that spirit before long.
From his waist he undid a long coiled length of leather he’d used for leading horses before, whether stolen or from their remuda. He tied one end to the girl’s fastened wrists and the other end around his waist. Only then did he unfasten her legs and undo the binding that had tied them to her wrists. The second she dropped to the ground she scrambled to her feet and took off running. He waited until she was near the end of the lead before he yanked back. She fell to her side, scrambled up again, only to have him jerk her off her feet again. She sat on the ground this time and glared up at him.
He walked up to her. Whenever the raiding parties had taken women before they had made them walk tied and naked behind the horses. It’s what Bent Feather would expect. He stepped closer and she lunged upward. If her mouth hadn’t been gagged with a leather strip she’d have bitten him. She kicked at him, nearly got him in the knee. He jumped back a step. He had his hands full here.
Sleeping Bear stepped closer again and she charged him. He had to jump to the side and yank on the lead. He knew a few words of English from the agent at the reservation. Frustrated, he yelled, “Take off your clothes!”
He could make out her muffled yell past the gag. “No.”
His picture of leading her into the camp as his subdued slave was fading. He got back up onto his mare and started to one side of the trail he’d been following. She resisted, but he tugged her along. She had to walk to keep from being tugged to the ground and dragged. But she looked far from happy. She looked ready to bite.
He didn’t know what to do with her. The older braves would, but the whole point was to come in with her subdued. That may take a while. Ahead he saw a large tree trunk. He led her to it and once she was against it he went around a few times with the lead. He tied that off. But the moment he moved closer she kicked at him. Snarling from behind her gag she struggled to get free. This was going to take a while, longer than he’d thought.
Sleeping Bear went to a thick bush and broke off a big brushy limb. Button’s eyes got bigger. She probably thought he was going to beat her with it. That was an idea. For now he went back to where he left the trail and brushed away the tracks of his horse. He was near enough to the camp to hear horses whinnying, then the sound of hooves and shooting. He swept faster as he backed away from the trail all the way to where the girl was tied. She was trying to scream or shout in spite of the gag. He glanced toward where he could still hear shooting, right where his Comanche friends were camped. He needed to do something, go there and help or do something about this girl. He didn’t know which.
Scamp slowed Mr. Dobbs’ pace from his already plodding gait to stare down at the trail.
“What is it?” Justin asked.
“I’ve lost the trail. I could see prints a minute ago. Now they’re suddenly gone.” Scamp started to lift a leg to slide off just as shots broke out ahead.
“What could that be?”
“I don’t know, except that my bet is that Button is in the middle of whatever it is.” He dug his heels into the gelding’s sides and they started forward again.