Текст книги "Dead Man's Walk"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“This was refined by my chemist, the learned Doctor Gilley,” Lady Carey said. “It came from sugarcane grown on my plantation, in the islands. I do think it’s very good sugar.”

“That’s where Mamma caught leprosy,” Willy said. “On our plantation. I didn’t catch it and neither did Emerald and neither did Mrs. Chubb.”

“Poor luck, I was the only one afflicted,” Lady Carey said.

“Well, Papa might have had it, but we don’t know, because the Mexicans shot him first,” Willy said. “That’s when we were made prisoners of war—when they shot Papa.”

“Now, Willy—these gentlemen have traveled a long way and lost many friends themselves,” Lady Carey said. “We needn’t burden them with our misfortunes.”

“I lost my Shad,” Matilda said. “It was a stray bullet, too. If he’d been sitting anywhere else I expect he’d still be alive.”

“Well, Matty, that’s not for sure,” Gus said. “We walked a far piece, after that, through all that cold weather.”

“Cold wouldn’t have kilt my Shad,” Matilda said. “I would have hugged him and kept him warm.”

“It is cold in our castle,” Willy said. “There aren’t many fires. But we have cannons and someday I will shoot them. When will we go back to our castle, Mamma?”

“That depends on these gentlemen,” Lady Carey said. “We’ll discuss it as soon as they’ve finished their tea. It’s very impolite to discuss business while one’s guests are enjoying their food.”

“We can talk now, I guess,” Call said. “If you’ve a plan for leaving here, I’m for talking now.”

“Fine, there’s nothing left but the cucumber sandwiches anyway,” Lady Carey said. “I suppose cucumbers are not much valued in Texas, but we Scots have a fine appetite for them. Come help me, Willy, and you too, Mrs. Chubb. Let’s finish off the sandwiches and plan our expedition.”

Call was enjoying the breads and muffins and fruit. Everything he put in his mouth was tasty, particularly the small, buttery ears of corn. After the cold, dry trip they had made, across the prairies and the desert, it seemed a miracle that they had come through safe and were eating such food in the company of an English lady, her servants, and her little boy. He was startled, though, when she mentioned an expedition. The country around El Paso was as harsh as any he had seen. Five Rangers, four women, and a boy wouldn’t stand much chance, not unless the Mexican army was planning to go with them.

“First, we need proper introductions,” Lady Carey said. “I’m Lucinda Carey, this is Mrs. Chubb, this is Emerald, and this is Willy. You know our names, but we don’t know yours. Could you tell us your names, please?”

Gus immediately told the lady that his name was Augustus McCrae. He was determined that Long Bill Coleman not be the first to speak to the fine lady who had fed them such delicious food.

“Why, Willy, he’s Scot, like us,” Lady Carey said. “I expect we’re cousins, twenty times removed, Mr. McCrae.”

The news perked Gus up immediately. The other Rangers introduced themselves—Woodrow Call was last. Long Bill took it upon himself to introduce Brognoli, whose head was still swinging back and forth, regular as the ticking of the clock. None of them knew how to behave to a lady—Long Bill attempted a little bow, but Lady Carey didn’t appear to notice. She divided the cucumber sandwiches between herself, Mrs. Chubb, and Willy, who ate them avidly.

All the while Emerald, the tall Negress, stood watching, near the bed. The little dog had gone to sleep and was snoring loudly.

“Throw a pillow at him, Willy—why must we hear those snores?” Lady Carey said, when the last cucumber sandwich was gone. Willy immediately grabbed three pillows off a red settee and threw them at the sleeping dog, which whuffed, woke up, shook itself, and ran off the bed into Lady Carey’s arms.

“This is George—he’s a smelly beast,” Lady Carey said. The little dog was frantically attempting to lick her, but the best he could do was lick her black gloves.

Call was watching the tall Negress, Emerald. She stood by the four-poster bed, keeping her eye on the company. She wasn’t unfriendly, but she wasn’t familiar, either. She was wrapped in a long, blue cloak. Call wondered if she had a gun under the cloak, or at least a knife. He could see that she was protective of Lady Carey and the little boy; he would not have wanted to be the one who attacked them, not with Emerald there.

While he was sipping the last of his tea, he happened to look up and see the head of a large snake, raised over the canopy of the four-poster bed. In a second the snake’s long body followed—it was far and away the largest snake Call had ever seen. He looked around the table, hoping to see a knife he could kill it with, but there was no knife, except the little one they had used to spread butter. He grabbed one of the little stools and was about to run over and try to smash the big snake with it when the Negress calmly stretched out a long black arm and let the big snake slide along it. All the Rangers gave a start, when they saw the snake slide onto Emerald’s arm. Soon it was draped over her shoulders, its head stretching out toward the table where the tea had been.

“No cause for alarm, gentlemen,” Lady Carey said. “That’s Elphinstone—he’s Willy’s boa.”

“Only he’s too big for me,” Willy said. “Mamma and Emerald play with him now. Mrs. Chubb doesn’t care for snakes. She hides her eyes when Elphinstone eats his rats.”

Emerald walked over and handed the boa to Lady Carey, who let it slither over her lap and off under the table.

“I think he wants George,” Lady Carey said. “Cake crumbs don’t satisfy a boa, but I expect a smelly little beast such as George would be a treat.”

“But Mamma, he can’t have George!” Willy insisted. “He finds quite a lot of rats—I shouldn’t think he’d need to eat our dog.”

“Who knows what a boa needs, Willy?” Lady Carey said. “I’m afraid we’ve let all these beasts distract us. Willy and I want to go home, gentlemen, and the Mexican government has agreed to release us. What they won’t do is provide us with an escort, and we’re rather a long way from a seaport.”

“I’ll say,” Long Bill said. “It’s so far I wouldn’t even know which one to head for.”

“Galveston is the most feasible, I believe,” Lady Carey said. “I’d rather try for Galveston than Veracruz. If we travel through Mexico the greedy generals might decide they want more ransom—my father has already paid them a handsome sum. He didn’t pay it for me, of course—father wouldn’t waste a shilling on a leprous daughter. He paid it for the young viscount here. Willy’s the one he needs—Willy’s the heir.”

The Rangers listened silently to what Lady Carey said. Call looked at Gus, who looked at Long Bill. Brognoli continued to swing his head, and Wesley Buttons, who was a slow eater, was still consuming the last crumbs of one of the big scones with raisins in it. The others had accepted that the big snake was a pet, but Wesley didn’t trust snakes, particularly not snakes that were longer than he was tall. This one had slithered off somewhere, but it could always slither back and take a bite out of him. He was careful to keep both feet on the rungs of his stool, and did not pay much attention to the talk of ransoms and seaports. He would go where the boys went—he was happy to let them decide.

“Ma’am, we’ll be pleased to take you to Galveston,” Call said. “If we can find the way. It’s a far piece, though, and we’ve got no mounts and no gear. Our horses got stolen, and the Mexicans took our guns.”

“Fortunately, we aren’t poor yet, we Careys,” Lady Carey said. “I didn’t expect you to walk across Texas barefoot, in leg irons. We have our own mounts, and we’ll soon find some for you. You look like honest men—I’ll send you to town with enough gold to equip us properly. Don’t skimp, either. Buy yourselves reliable weapons and warm clothes and trustworthy mounts. We have a tent large enough for ourselves and Miss Roberts—but I’m afraid you men will have to sleep out, if it’s not too inconvenient.”

“We don’t know how to sleep no way but out,” Gus said. “If we can get some slickers and some blankets we’ll be cozy, I guess.”

Just then, the snake emerged and began to glide up one of the bedposts. Soon it disappeared, back onto the canopy over the big bed. Wesley Buttons cautiously put his feet back on the ground., “I expect it’s a little too late to send you to town today,” Lady Carey said. “Emerald, tell Manuel to get the irons off these men. I want them to get into town early tomorrow. I want to leave San Lazaro quickly—these greedy Mexicans might change their minds.”

“Come,” Emerald said. “We’ve fixed a room for you. The mattresses are just corn shuck, but it will be more comfortable than the place the Mexicans put you.”

When they left the room, Willy had seated himself next to his mother and was helping her select from a bunch of storybooks, piled beside the low settee where Lady Carey sat. She raised her head to them, as they left the room, but all they could see were her veils.

“I wonder how bad she is, with the leprosy?” Gus asked, as the Texans were following Emerald along the balcony to their quarters. “Wouldn’t it be awful if she didn’t have no nose?”

“Yes, it would be awful, but I like her anyway,” Call said. “She’s going to get us out of here. I never supposed we’d be this lucky.”

Gus thought of the long miles they had to travel, over the dry, windy country, to get even as far back as the settlements around Austin. It was a long way, even to the mountains where Josh Corn and Zeke Moody had been killed. And if they got that far, they would be in the land of Buffalo Hump.

“We don’t know yet if we’re lucky,” he said. “We got to go right across where that Comanche is.”

“It still beats being a prisoner arid wearing these damn chains,” Call said.

BUFFALO HUMP CAUGHT KIRKER, the scalp hunter, in a rocky gully just east of the Rio Pecos. Kirker had forty scalps with him at the time. Buffalo Hump judged the scalps to be mostly Mexican scalps, but he tortured Kirker to death anyway. The man had not been easy to take. He had managed to get in amid some rocks and delayed them a whole day, an annoying thing to the war chief. The Comanche moon was full—he wanted to follow the old trail, down into Mexico, and bring back captives, children they could use as slaves, or sell to the half-breed traders, in the trading place called the Sorrows, near the dripping springs where travelers on the llano stopped to rest and water their animals.

Buffalo Hump did not like having to slow his raid to catch one scalp hunter, a man so weak that he only killed Mexicans and rarely even attempted to take an Apache scalp, or a Comanche. At first he considered leaving three men, to hide and wait. When Kirker thought he was safe and came out of his hiding place in the rocks, the men could kill him and then follow the raiding party south.Kicking Wolf, though, protested so vigorously that Buffalo Hump gave in. Kirker had killed two of Kicking Wolfs wives, and one of his sons; he had taken their scalps and sold them. Kicking Wolf was not a man who forgave or forgot; he wanted to take part in Kirker’s death. The Comanche moon had only just turned full—they could easily sweep on into Mexico and take their captives. Kicking Wolf even had an idea that would help drive Kirker out of his hole in the rocks, and he put it into practice at night, just before moonrise. He had his young warriors catch several snakes and tie their tails together so tightly that they couldn’t rattle well. Of course the rattlers’ heads had to be held down with a stick—they grew angry at the mistreatment they received. There were seven snakes in all. Once the seven were bound together by their tails, a young brave named Fast Boy climbed up on the rocks above Kirker and threw the bundle of snakes down on top of him. Kirker screamed when the first snake bit him—when he screamed, revealing his position, Buffalo Hump himself jumped down on him and knocked his gun away before he could kill himself. Fortunately, the snake had only bitten Kirker in the leg; the wound would not kill him, or weaken him enough to spoil the torture. Even before they got Kirker back to camp, Kicking Wolf, who could not be restrained when he was angry, poked a sharp stick in Kirker’s ear, destroying his eardrum and causing much blood to run out of his head. Kirker snarled and howled, like a tied wolf. He spat at the Comanches so many times that Buffalo Hump took a needle and a thread and sewed his lips together; after that he could not scream loudly, though he rolled and writhed and made gurgling sounds as he was being burnt and cut by Kicking Wolf, who insisted on doing most of the torturing himself. Some of the braves were in favor of saving Kirker; they wanted to send him back to the main camp, so the squaws could torture him. One squaw named Three Seed was better at torture than any man. She could bite off a man’s fingers or toes as neatly as if she were merely biting a willow twig.

Buffalo Hump, though, was impatient. It was true that Kirker was a bad man who deserved to be tortured by the squaws, but the squaws were four days’ ride to the north, and the raiders’ business lay to the south. Kicking Wolf might not be as expert at torture as Three Seed, but he was good enough to make Kirker writhe and gurgle through a whole afternoon. He had been burned and cut and blinded when they took him to a small tree near the Pecos and tied him upside down. They built a small fire beneath his dangling head, and prepared to ride off; the greasewood would burn all night. Long before the sun rose, Kirker’s head would be cooked.

Even so, when Buffalo Hump mounted and indicated that it was time to take advantage of the Comanche moon and get on with the serious business of the raid, Kicking Wolf refused to leave. He was determined to enjoy Kirker’s torture to the end. He jabbed a thorny stick into Kirker’s other ear, and let blood from his head drip into the fire.

Buffalo Hump was irritated, but Kicking Wolf, as a warrior, could do as he pleased, up to a point. The man knew the way to Mexico as well as anyone. It was not likely that Kirker would last until the morning—Kicking Wolf would follow and catch up the next day.

Still, before he left, Buffalo Hump made sure Kicking Wolf knew he was expected in Mexico soon. Kicking Wolf was the best horse thief in the tribe, and also the best stealer of children. He moved without making any sound at all. Once or twice he had reached through a window and taken a child while its parents were right in the room, eating or quarreling. Buffalo Hump did not want Kicking Wolf lingering too long, just to torture one scalp hunter. The man was already too weak to respond strongly to torture, anyway. He only jerked a little, and made a weak sound behind his sewn lips when the flames touched his head.

Kicking Wolf paid little attention to Buffalo Hump and the other warriors, as they rode off to the south. He was glad the war chief was gone—Buffalo Hump was a great fighter, but he was too impatient for the slow business of torture. For the same reason, Buffalo Hump was not an especially good hunter—he often jumped too soon. Torture took patience, and Buffalo Hump didn’t have it. Before the warriors were even out of sight, Kicking Wolf took a stick or two off the fire and touched them to Kirker here and there, causing the man to jerk like a speared fish. The jerking made Kicking Wolf happy. It was good to be rid of the impatient war chief, good to be alone to hurt the man who had scalped his wives and his little son. In a little while, he cut the bloody threads that Buffalo Hump had used to sew Kirker’s lips together. Then he stoked the fire a little and grabbed Kirker by the hair, so he could hold the man’s face right over the flames. He wanted to hear the man scream.

After the first screams were over, Kicking Wolf scattered the fire a little and let Kirker’s head hang down again. He got up and walked a short distance to a pile of rocks, carrying one of the burning sticks, to give him a little light. He wanted to find some little scorpions and put them on the white man. The scorpions would hurt him but would not kill him, and the torture could go on.

CALL WAS SURPRISED BY Lady Carey’s riding. She rode sidesaddle, of course, but handled her black gelding as expertly as any man. She could even make the horse jump, putting him over little gullies and small bushes while at a gallop. Call thought that was foolish, but he had to admit it was skillful, and pretty to watch. Willy tried to get his pony to jump like his mother’s gelding, but of course the pony wouldn’t. Mrs. Chubb rode a donkey, and protested constantly about its behaviour, though Gus pointed out to her that her donkey behaved no worse than most donkeys.

“In England they behave better, sir,” Mrs. Chubb insisted. “This one tried to bite my toe.”

Emerald, the tall Negress, rode a large white mule; she astonished Gus when she told him that the mule had sailed over from Ireland, along with Willy’s pony and Lady Carey’s black gelding.

“I doubt I could get fond enough of a mule to bring one on a ship,” Gus said. He himself was riding a lively bay, procured in El Paso. In fact, thanks to Lady Carey’s largesse, they were all better mounted than they had been at any time during their journeying. Each man had two horses, and there were four pack mules. One carried Lady Carey’s canvas tent; the others carried provisions, including plenty of ammunition. They all had first-rate weapons, too —brand-new rifles and pistols, and a pretty shotgun for shooting fowl. Gus was eager to try the shotgun on prairie chickens—he had acquired a taste for the birds, but traveling east out of El Paso, they saw no prairie chickens, only desert. Gus did manage to bring down a lean jackrabbit with the shotgun, but upon inspecting the rabbit, Emerald declined to cook it.

“Lady Carey doesn’t care for hares, unless they’re jugged,” she said. Lady Carey had raced far ahead. She was still completely veiled, so veiled that Call didn’t know how she could see prairie-dog holes and other dangers of the trail. But she rode fast, her veils flying, and the black gelding rarely stumbled.

At four, to the Rangers’ astonishment, the party stopped so that tea could be served. A small table was set up, covered with a white damask cloth. A fire was made; while Emerald sliced a small ham and made little sandwiches, Mrs. Chubb brewed the tea. The sugar bowl was brought out and sugar tonged into the cups. All the Rangers liked the tea and drank several cups; they decided they approved of English customs. Call, though he enjoyed the tea, thought it was foolish to waste an hour of daylight sitting around a table in the desert. The boys could drink all the tea they wanted at night—why waste the daylight? But he had to admit that otherwise Lady Carey’s arrangements had been excellent. The saddles were the best that could be located in El Paso; also, mindful that winter was approaching, Lady Carey had insisted that they buy slickers, warm coats, and plenty of blankets. If Caleb Cobb’s expedition had been half so well equipped, it might have succeeded, at least in Call’s view. With proper equipment, it would have had a chance.

At night, with Long Bill’s help and Gus’s, Emerald set up Lady Carey’s tent. While the tent was being anchored, Lady Carey sat by the campfire and read Willy stories from one of the storybooks they had with them. Some of the Rangers, unused to having a lady handy who would read, listened to the stories and enjoyed them as much as Willy. Matilda Roberts, for her part, enjoyed them more than Willy—the young viscount, after all, had had the stories read to him many times. But Matilda had never heard of Little Red Riding Hood, or Jack and the Beanstalk. She sat entranced, letting her tea grow cold, as Lady Carey read.

Even more entrancing than the stories was Lady Carey’s singing. Mostly she sang light tunes, “Annie Laurie,” “Barbara Allen,” and the like—the light tunes suited the men best. But now and then, as if bored with the sentimental tunes, Lady Carey would suddenly let her voice grow and grow, until it seemed to fill the vastness of the desert. She sang in a tongue none of them knew—none, that is, except Quartermaster Brognoli, who suddenly stood up and attempted to sing with her. He had not emitted an intelligible sound in so long that his voice was hoarse and raspy, but he was trying to sing and there was life in his eyes again. A vein stood out on his forehead as he attempted to sing with Lady Carey.

“Why, he’s Italian and he knows his operas,” Lady Carey said. “Now that he’s found his voice again, I expect he’ll be singing arias in a day or two.”

That prediction proved wrong, for Quartermaster Brognoli died that night. Call looked at him in the morning, and saw at once that he was dead. His head was twisted far around on his back and neck.

“I guess that jerking finally killed him,” Gus said, when the sad news was reported.

“No, it was the opera,” Lady Carey said. “Or perhaps it was just hearing his native tongue.”

Quartermaster Brognoli was buried in the hard ground—the four remaining Rangers took turns digging. Lady Carey sang the same piece she had sung when the Mexican firing squad cut down Bigfoot and the others. All the men cried, although Wesley Buttons had never been fond of Brognoli. Still, they had traveled a long way together, and now the man was dead. In the vastness of the desert, each reduction of the group made them realize how small they were, how puny, in relation to the space they were traveling through.

“We’re back where it’s wild again,” Call said.

Lady Carey happened to overhear the remark—she drew rein for a moment, looking toward a faint outline of mountains in the east.

“Yes, it’s wild, isn’t it,” she said. “It’s like a smell. I smelled it in Africa and now I smell it here.”

“It means we have to be careful,” Call said.

Lady Carey looked again at the distant mountains.“Quite the contrary, Corporal Call,” she said. “It means we have to be wild, like the wild men.”

She turned her head toward him, and sat watching him for a moment. Call couldn’t see her eyes, through the several dark veils, but he knew she was watching him. One of her shirtsleeves had ridden up a bit—he could see just a bit of her wrist, between the shirtsleeve and her black gloves. He and Gus had speculated a little, about how affected Lady Carey was by the leprosy. She had no trouble handling her horse, and she was dexterous with her hands, when it came to pouring tea, or buttering muffins. The wrist he saw was a creamy white—much whiter than Matilda’s. Matty was brown from the sun.

Although she had been always polite, Call felt nervous, knowing that her hidden eyes were fixed on him.

“Are you wild enough, Corporal Call?” Lady Carey asked. “I have a feeling you are.”

“I guess we’ll see,” Call said.

THE COMANCHES STRUCK DEEP into Mexico, under the bright moon. In Chihuahua Buffalo Hump struck a ranch, killed the rancher and his wife and all the vaqueros, and took three children and seventy horses. He ordered three young braves, led by Fast Boy, back up the war trail with the horses. He wanted the horses safely back in the main camp, in the Palo Duro Canyon, before the worst of the winter ice storms came. They could eat the horses, if buffalo proved scarce.

Then, with the shivering, terrified children tied on one horse, he struck east, taking only those children that were old enough to be useful slaves. The others he killed, along with their parents. At one hacienda he tied the whole family, threw them on their own haystack, and burned them. The Comanches rode on, striking hard and fast. Once they saw a little militia in the distance, perhaps twenty men. The young braves wanted to attack, but Buffalo Hump wouldn’t let them. He told them they could come back and fight Mexican soldiers anytime. Now they were on a raid, and needed to concern themselves with captives and horses.

They soon had ten children—four boys and six girls—none of them older than eight or nine years. They also had twenty more horses, which they drove with them as they turned north. Buffalo Hump was satisfied. They had taken almost a hundred horses, and ten children who were strong enough not to die on the hard journey. Kicking Wolf had failed to appear. Some of the braves speculated that he had caught another white to torture.

More than thirty Mexicans had been killed on the raid. Now the wind was growing colder—Buffalo Hump wanted to go to the trading place, the Sorrows, to trade his captives for tobacco and blankets and ammunition. He himself had the fine gun the Texans had given him, but he didn’t use it to kill Mexicans. The fine gun he kept for buffalo hunting. The Mexicans he merely struck with his lance, or put an arrow through. He wanted guns, though—not for himself but for his braves. There were more Texans than ever, moving west on the creeks and rivers, cutting trees and making little farms. They were easy to kill, the Texans, but there were many of them, and most of his warriors still only had bows and arrows. All the Texans had guns—some of them could shoot well. It would be better if his young men learned to use the gun. Otherwise, the Texans might come all the way into the Comancheria and start killing the buffalo.

A day south of the Rio Grande, Buffalo Hump took a girl, a pretty Mexican girl who was caught while washing clothes on a rock in a little creek. There was a village not too far distant, but Buffalo Hump was on the girl so quickly that she did not have time to scream. He drew his knife to kill her, but in the brief struggle her young breasts spilled out of her tunic and he decided to keep her. He had had Mexican women before, but none so appealing as the slim girl he had just caught. He gagged her with a piece of rawhide, and put her over his horse.

Later, when they were many miles north and not far from the river, one of the braves came and informed him that a foolish young warrior named Crow was missing. Buffalo Hump didn’t wait. Probably Crow had gone into the outskirts of the village and attempted to steal a girl for himself—Crow had always been jealous of Buffalo Hump. Though only sixteen, he wanted everything the war chief had. The young braves became restive. They didn’t want to leave Crow; he was known to be foolish. An old witch woman had told Crow that he would not die, and Crow believed her. Yet, he was brave in battle, and the young warriors didn’t want to leave him. Buffalo Hump finally sent two of them to find their friend. They arrived back late at night with long faces and bad news. Crow had attacked the Mexican village single-handedly, convinced that he could scare away all the cowardly Mexicans and take what he wanted from the town. The braves who went back caught a boy and made him tell them what had happened, for they had not met Crow along the trail. The boy said Crow had ridden around the village, drinking and shooting off an old gun he had found. He did scare the Mexicans away for awhile, but he enjoyed frightening the village people so much that he grew careless. A vaquero roped him from a rooftop. While he was spinning in the air, the village men came back and hacked him to death with their machetes.

Buffalo Hump took the Mexican girl, though she struggled violently. He decided to take her for a wife. It might be that when they got to the trading place one of the traders would offer him a very high price for the girl; unless it was very high he resolved to keep her, although he would have to be careful when he took her back to the tribe. His old wives were jealous and would beat the girl severely, with firewood or sticks, unless he made it clear to them that they would suffer from his hand if the girl was too much damaged.

Crow’s loss he did not lament. It was true that Crow had been brave, but he was not respectful. Several times already, Buffalo Hump had been tempted to put a lance through him, in response to an insolent look.

The girl, Rosa, whimpered from cold and fright. Buffalo Hump went to her, and took her again. Then he stuffed the rawhide gag back in her mouth; he didn’t like the sounds frightened women made.

The next day, one warrior short, the Comanches crossed the Rio Grande. That day they caught two whites, an old man and an old woman, traveling west in a little wagon. They were people of God —they prayed loudly to their Jesus, but Buffalo Hump burned them anyway, in their own wagon. They screamed more loudly than they prayed. As the Comanches were riding off, a cougar jumped out of a little spur of rocks and raced away. Several of the young braves gave chase—it would be a great thing, if one of them could kill a cougar. But Buffalo Hump let them go—he had once longed to kill a cougar or a bear himself, and finally had killed a bear, near the headwaters of the Cimarron. But it had only been an old she-bear with a wounded paw; he could not claim much credit for having killed it. Once he had put his lance in a male grizzly, but the grizzly had treated the lance like a burr, and had chased Buffalo Hump for a mile. If he had not been on his best horse that day, the bear would have killed him.

Of course, the young braves did not manage to catch the cougar. Their horses were a little tired, from the swift raid. The cougar outran them easily.

Later that day, Kicking Wolf appeared. Buffalo Hump was angry with him, for missing the raid, but they had taken so many horses and so many captives that he didn’t bother complaining. Kicking Wolf was a very contrary man—he did as he pleased. He told Buffalo Hump he had decided to wait for them on the trail, because he was enjoying the feeling he had after torturing Kirker to death.

It was a feeling of great power and calm, Kicking Wolf said. He didn’t want to lose it just to catch a few Mexican children and run off a few horses. He explained that he had tortured Kirker for another day, after they hung him over the fire. After Kirker died, Kicking Wolf cut off all of his fingers—he meant to take them to the main camp and make them into a necklace. The fingers of the scalp hunter should not be wasted.