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Sleeping Bear climbed off his pinto mare and bent close to the ground. Only by looking closely could he see where the leafy limbs of a bush had been used to sweep away the marks of many unshod horses. That would be where Bent Feather’s band had driven the stolen horses and then covered their trail. Probably Crooked Nose, who was the same age as Sleeping Bear, had been the one at the rear of the bunch cleaning away their prints. That had been Sleeping Bear’s job, a low enough one, but a chore he now missed.
The Comanche band had ridden across hard stone in places, and had backtracked up streams. It took Sleeping Bear longer to follow them than he thought. Several times he had to guess which way they would take. But he could travel faster alone than the group of them driving a herd of stolen horses and trying to cover their tracks as they went.
A row of turkeys landed to sit in a row on the bare limb of a tree. On any other day he’d draw his bow and shoot one to have something to cook later. He swayed on his horse from not eating, but he pressed on, worried that the others would gain too much distance.
As his horse parted the low chaparral the thorns grazed his leggings. He peered ahead across an open stretch of grass ahead, searching for but not catching a glimpse of the others. He knew he could always ride off on his own. Other young braves had done so. But he craved contact with the others. The Comanche hunt and fight in groups. He pushed the thought of heading back to the reservation farthest away. That was a path of shame.
He did not expect to see them out in the open. Bent Feather was crafty and knew how to move where he could not be easily spotted. So he heard the band before he saw it. For a while he had known he was getting closer. Then Crooked Nose rode out from behind a thick stand of growth and held his rifle pointed at Sleeping Bear.
“It is me,” Sleeping Bear said. “You know me. We played together as children.”
Crooked Nose didn’t smile. “Bent Feather expects you. Come.”
This didn’t bode well.
The renegade band sat their horses as they watered the stolen steeds as well as their own. Sleeping Bear saw Coyote Eyes and Yellow Hand. He didn’t see one or two of them, three now that he looked closely. They would move again soon after only the shortest of rests, with no time to cook or eat except for the few strips of dried flesh some of them had from days ago. Bent Feather saw him coming down the slope to the small creek. He turned his head and looked away.
No. This was not good at all.
Sleeping Bear reined his mare to a halt.
Bent Feather turned, spoke to Crooked Nose. “Go see about the trail.”
Crooked Nose said. “I’ll go and do what can be done.”
Bent Feather waited until Crooked Nose had ridden out of sight before he finally turned to Sleeping Bear. He frowned, but he always frowned. This time he seemed more severe somehow.
“When you were a small boy you were different. We had a sign.”
Sleeping Bear waited, knew he dared not interrupt no matter how eagerly he wanted to speak for himself.
“One day you were playing the warrior games that boys do, and in wrestling with another of the boys you knocked over the spear that held the buffalo skull our medicine chief Wind in the Long Grass had decorated to ensure we would prosper—that the grass would grow and the buffalo would come, that the waters would flow, and that we would prevail against our enemies. The skull you knocked over fell into the fire and burned before it could be saved. Wind in the Long Grass said that was an omen, whether a bad omen or a good one he could not say yet. It might well mean a blessing, but it more likely meant a curse.”
“How would a boy know such a thing carried a curse?”
Bent Feather held up a hand, letting Sleeping Bear know this was not his time to speak.
“Wind in the Long Grass counted the moons, and soon there were no more buffalo. We lost many warriors at war, your father among them. The People were taken from their home beside the stream and put in reservations by the palefaces. All of it happened as the omen said. And you were the one who destroyed the buffalo skull.”
“Why have you said nothing before?” Sleeping Bear’s mare moved a hoof, so he gripped a stretch of mane to will her to hold still.
“We lost three warriors back there. You left your lookout. That is when I knew I must speak. Your father was a brave and strong warrior. But you, Sleeping Bear, should turn your mount and head back to the reservation.”
“But . . . .”
“Go.”
Sleeping Bear could not argue with that. He felt hungry and tired. But worse, he felt shame. He nudged his mare into movement and rode away from the others, not looking back or expecting to hear a call for him to come back. He felt as alone as he’d ever been in his life, worse than the three nights and days on top of the spirit rock. He’d had visions then. Now, as he urged his horse slowly away, he saw nothing in his future, nothing at all.
“How’re you doing up there?” Sergeant Jobe Jenkins had been watching Bo get ever closer to the ground as he crouched and went back and forth with his eye almost on the reddish-brown dirt. He’d dismounted while the others sat their horses and waited.
“Blamedest trail I’ve seen in quite a spell.”
“Why so?”
“’Cause there ain’t any trail to it. One minute they was riding along, then they wasn’t. It’s like they got sucked up into the sky.”
“Stolen horses and all? That’d be quite a feat.”
“I’d have to agree, Sarge.”
“Come on now. We’ve known each other too long. Call me Jobe.”
“Well, Jobe, I’ve done lost the trail. Try as hard as I might, it’s just gone up the flume.”
Jobe took off his hat and rubbed at the sweat that speckled his brow. He recalled what General Sherman had said about Texas. If he owned Texas and Hell he’d rent out Texas and live in Hell. Jobe looked up. The sun wasn’t even all the way to its zenith yet. Today was going to be a scorcher and here they were out in the open and finding nothing.
“Let’s find some water and let the horses have a feed and we’ll start over in widening circles. This Bent Feather is one crafty redskin, but we’ll get the best of him yet.”
Bo shook his head, seemed not as sure as Jobe. But he swung back up into his saddle and headed unerringly toward the nearest water.
Jobe’s eyes followed the line of cottonwood trees far in the distance beyond an open expanse of swaying grass. The tree marked a stream, the only one close around. Perhaps they might find some Indian sign there. They sure weren’t finding anything more on the path they’d been following. But it would be a good spot for an ambush as well. The idea of anyone attacking a band of Texas Rangers, the Comanche included, was remote. Rangers had had far more successes when it came to fighting Indians than the cavalry. The cavalry had wanted to do battle as one group against another, as they had in the recent Civil War. The Rangers tended to smash into those they confronted in a man-to-man and horse-to-horse frenzy. Their wild eagerness to engage an enemy and never stop or hold back made them feared, which is exactly what Jobe wanted. That controlled fury, and sometimes not so controlled fury, in the face of danger, all in the name of doing good, was what had lured Jobe to the Rangers in the first place. They rode forward, not with any reluctance fearing that someone might try to attack them, but with a hopeful eagerness that they would.
He waved for Bo to trot ahead and scout for any sign, with always a chance he might shoot some game for their evening meal. Bo soon waved back that the area around the small stream was clear.
While he let Buck have a drink with the other horses, Jobe called the other dismounted Rangers closer to stand in a circle. One or two had rolled cigarettes and Zed was cutting off a piece of cut plug to shove into his cheek.
Jobe waited until they all looked his way, with their full attention. “I want us to spread out wide around the stream and look for the slightest sign. If we don’t get a glimmer we may have to head back and tell the lieutenant that we let a band of Comanche and a herd of stolen horses slip right through our fingers. Once the horses have a belly full, we’ll meander downstream a spell. Anyone who catches a glimmer of anything should sing out. Okay, boys?”
They nodded and followed Jobe as they went to fill their canteens upstream. Then they mounted, and rode out from the cool shadows by the trickle of water and into the heat of the sun.
As the mounted Rangers roamed along on one side of the stream, Jobe sent Zed to scout the other side of the stream to keep an eye out for sign. Barely a mile down river, Jobe heard a yell from Zed, who came riding out of the thicket toward them. “Found something. On the other side.”
“What?”
“Tracks of an unshod horse.”
“Just the one?” Jobe tilted his head.
The other Rangers rode up close. Bo spoke out. “You hardly ever hear of a Comanche being out on his lonesome.”
“Do you think it’s worth checking?” Jobe asked.
Bo nodded. “Thing is, a lone Comanche rarely stays on his own for long. I say we follow the trail. It’s the best bet we have to get next to Bent Feather.”
Some three hours of sun-baked riding later it looked like the hunch might pay off. The one track of hoof prints led them to a spot where Bo said there had been an Indian camp.
Jobe glanced around. He could see no sign of a fire or even where they’d kept the stolen horses.
“It’s been cleaned up, Jobe, like those other trails that disappeared on us. This Bent Feather is one clever Comanche.” Bo was the only one who’d dismounted. He swung himself back up into the saddle. “I’ve got a notion here. The trail of single hoof prints leaves on its own again. I’m thinking this is an Injun who’s been given the boot for whatever, but might just hang around and follow the others at a distance. It’s worth a shot.”
Jobe shrugged. He let Bo take the lead and follow the lone warrior’s prints. Only an hour later he realized the tracks were heading in the other direction. He nudged Buck and moved up closer to Bo. “What’s going on?”
“That dern Bent Feather is what’s going on. Either that or this rider is lost as all get out, and I don’t think that’s the case. That Injun’s just got more tricks than a jumping flea. Blast him.”
“Where do you think he’s going?”
Bo looked up from the trail he was following. “We’re kind of going in the direction of the town of Bentley just now. Might be coming onto the Kenedy spread soon.”
“It’s not the Kenedy spread anymore. Kenedy’s dead.”
“My hunch is that there’s still some of Kenedy’s cattle running free on that range, though. I’ll bet those Comanches are right hungry by now. They could grab the haunch off a calf and cook it up somewheres if they can keep ahead of us. They didn’t have time to make a fire back at the spot where they rested.”
Jobe sighed. “Well, let’s keep after them. Be nice to run them to the ground and get those horses back before we’re all too old to draw our guns.”
“We’re tired too,” Bo said.
“I don’t mean to say we have to be tougher than those Injuns. We just have to be as tough.”
“Okay. We’ll keep after it.” Bo rode on ahead, following the tracks of the lone Comanche.
Tuckered though they were, Jobe still hoped they could catch up to the renegade band, perhaps even before dark. Ahead Bo was waving an arm. Jobe rode up to the crest of the hill where Bo sat his horse. He waved a hand, pointing ahead.
Below, where the slope flattened out into a prairie of long grass, a dozen men on horseback were herding a hundred head of cattle right across the hoofprints they’d been following.
“Well, now. If that don’t take all. Wonder what in the Sam Hill they were thinking?”
“I don’t imagine they were thinking about anything but rounding up some beef,” Jobe said to the other men who’d gathered into a tight group. “We’re on the old Kenedy spread. Kenedy’s dead. So, who are these guys? We’d best go have a closer look in case they’re rustling.”
He drew his Winchester out of its scabbard and levered a shell into the chamber. “Be on your toes, Rangers.” He led the way down the hill.