BIRDSONG of the PENATEKA
by
R. William Rogers
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Published by Robert W. Rogers on Smashwords
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Birdsong of the Penetaka
Copyright © 2011 by: Robert W. Rogers
ebooks ISBN: 978-1-4661-1250-6
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Birdsong of the Penateka
Chapter 1
The Comanche woman sighed wistfully as the last splotch of canvas faded from view below the crest of the furthest of the gently-rolling, grass-covered prairie hills. Not much else moved except for some wisps of white smoke and the gently swaying buffalo grass that stretched, in all directions, as far as the eye could see. She looked skyward and was pleased to see a chicken hawk circling lazily overhead, no doubt searching for an unfortunate rabbit or field mouse. She envied the powerful bird as she watched it soaring almost directly overhead.
She then again looked in the direction the wagons had taken and thought of her loneliness. Despite the warming effects of the morning sun, she shivered as a chill ran up he spine. She glanced at the emptiness around her and, using both hands, rubbed away the goose bumps that had risen on her upper arms.
A gentle nudge demanded her attention and she turned to look into the soft, dark eyes of the painted pony that stood slightly behind and off to one side of her. The animal again playfully nudged her shoulder and expelled a rush of air through fluttering lips.
Birdsong absentmindedly patted and scratched the young pony’s face while she gazed past the animal to the still-smoldering remains of the Baxter wagon. She thought of the foolishness that had convinced Noah to pack up his two sons and leave the safety-in-numbers security of the wagon train.
Although she had held within her much dislike for Noah Baxter, during nearly the entire trip out from Independence, she knew in her heart of hearts that not even he deserved such a ruthless end. The Utes had obviously taken great pleasure in showing their hatred for the white-eyes who dared cross their land. Noah and both his sons, Wayman and Rip, had been savagely butchered and scalped. It was only by chance that the rest of the wagon train had come across them and because of that were able to place them in the ground as was befitting the remains of the white-eyes.
She glanced again at the direction the wagons had taken and let her mind remember the things that had brought her to this spot where she now found herself: Gone was her man, Wild Willie Hawkins, gone was her new friend, Angry Bear, gone was Mary Jane--as were the other three white-eyes children she’d rescued from the camp of the Penateka and gone were each of the white-eyes who had been her close friends during the perilous six-week journey to this spot. She felt a great sadness as she remembered each of the faces that were even now continuing the westward journey across the hills of this vast land the whites called the Great Basin.
Her thoughts then centered on Angry Bear. She remembered how the young buck of only sixteen grasses had given his life to save her from the band of ruthless Mexican banditos that had ambushed them while they were returning the rescued children to the wagons. She smiled at the remembered image of him telling her how his father had first named him Bear Cub and how he’d proudly told her that when he proved himself as a warrior, how his name would then become Angry Bear. She was pleased and honored to have been the first to call him by his newly-earned warrior name as she’d said her final good-bye after his brave and glorious death.
Her thoughts returned to the present and she stroked the pony’s neck affectionately. “You must now be my friend,” she said softly.
The young painted-one nickered and gently nudged the softness of her muzzle against the front of Birdsong’s shoulder.
Birdsong showed that delightful smile of hers and slowly rubbed the pony’s face. “Is good,” she said softly. “I am starting to feel better already.” She brushed her lips across the pony’s cheek and reaching under patted her on the opposite side of the neck. “Come, we will go now,” she said flatly and gave the neck a final pat.
The white-eyes had given her two warm blankets and enough provisions to last her until she found her way back at the Penateka village. The provisions had been secured inside the two blankets, with the corners pulled together and fastened to one another by way of a length of rope. She picked them up and slung the lighter of the two across to the other side of the pony’s withers. She adjusted the load until she felt satisfied with the burden’s positioning. She then grabbed both hands full of mane and deftly swung onto the animal’s back. She pressed gently with her knees and didn’t look back as she urged the pony toward the rising sun in search of the village of the Penateka and her man, Running Antelope.
*
Running Antelope felt much pain from his wounded leg. Yet, he knew that without Birdsong’s knowledge of the healing plants, he could easily have died from his wound. His thoughts went to her: My beautiful Birdsong have you found the wagons? Are the white-eyes children back with their own people? Are you and Bear Cub now on your way back to the village? He was impatient to again see her duck into his lodge and light up the enclosed area with her presence.
He looked around the interior, remembering.
He saw the place by the entrance where she had stacked his weapons of war neatly off to one side, as well as his extra pair of deerskin pants and his other two shirts. His gaze lingered on the mat where she had slept until just a few days before. He could almost smell the freshness of her as he recalled the days they had shared together…days that had been far too few and had passed with the swiftness of the puma. He smiled warmly as he remembered her promise to one day become his woman…his wife.
The smile broadened.
She was a thoughtful, caring woman and would do well as the village’s new healing one. The aging Buffalo Horn had made a wise decision in choosing her to replace him. She would someday acquire a mighty pahu and become legendary among the Penateka as well as the many other bands of the Comanche…just as Buffalo Horn had done over the course of his many years.
His thoughts returned to the present and he poked gingerly at the area around the wound in his thigh. He felt pleased at how much it had improved in such a short time.
With the assistance of the stick she had provided for him, he extended the leg out stiffly and awkwardly worked his way to a standing position. Expecting things to be worse, he felt even more at ease when the leg supported a good portion of his weight and didn’t hurt unbearably. With some difficulty, he ducked his way through the opening and out into the morning sunlight.
*
As the morning wore on Birdsong maintained a reasonable pace, allowing the earth to pass steadily under the painted pony’s hooves. Her thoughts were jumbled as they jumped from things remembered to things that were yet to come, much as the orange and black butterfly would touch each flower in a field of painted beauty.
She again felt a pang of sorrow in her heart for the death of Angry Bear. She longed to again see her newly-found love, Running Antelope and hoped his wounded leg was not causing him much discomfort. She knew it would heal in time, but that the process would be a slow and sometimes painful one. She smiled at the remembered promise to become his woman after she’d finished mourning the tragic death of her husband, Wild Willie, who’d died bravely during the final attack on the wagons. He’d been a good man and her heart was sad because she would miss him a great deal.
The pony heaved under her and she gently pulled her to a halt. She slid down and patted the painted-one’s neck affectionately. “We will stop now,” she said as she looked overhead into the nearly straight-up sun. She felt hunger in her stomach and reached for the rope that secured the bundles. She slid the burden from the pony’s back and lowered it to the blanket of green grass, thankful that there was no need for it to be any heavier than it was. She would be home in little more than two days and therefore needed little in the way of supplies.
The painted-one immediately went to work on a feast of buffalo grass. “Eat quickly, my friend,” she said and began untying the nearest of the bundles. “We will leave again very soon.”
She returned to sorting through her jumbled thoughts as she prepared and ate the midday meal, albeit a sparse one.
Just as she had finished her meal, and was preparing to reassemble the bundle, her attention was drawn to movement on the far-off eastern horizon. She cupped both hands above her eyes and squinted against the glaring effects of the sun.
Her heartbeat quickened.
She again reached for the bundle and quickly began to pull the ends together. Just then, the ground began to tremble beneath her while at the same time what had begun as a low droning rumble grew in intensity until it filled the air around her. She quickly realized her imminent danger and forgot about the supplies as she hastily scrambled to her feet and hurried to the pony.
She swung up onto the pony’s back with effortless ease and pulled the animal’s head around to the south. Feeling relatively certain that she had enough time to get past the front-runners before she found herself surrounded, she dug her heels in and lowered herself along the pony’s surging neck, burying her face in the flowing mane.
The young pony responded, as she no doubt also felt a pressing need to escape the fast-approaching threat.
They were quickly at a full gallop with the wind continuing to whip the mane into Birdsong’s face. Under different circumstances, she would have taken great delight in being one with the powerful muscles that surged beneath her.
They were in a rolling section of prairie that seemed devoid of hidden arroyos. For this, Birdsong was grateful. She glanced to the side and could see that the approaching buffalo herd was not to be so easily outdistanced. She glanced ahead and was dismayed to see that a finger of the crazed herd was just topping the mound ahead. She knew it would soon cut across her path, well in front of her and the painted-one.
Reacting instinctively, she pulled the pony around more to the west and while again leaning forward, urged the painted-one even faster by talking into her ear as she stroked the now-sweated neck for added encouragement.
*
Running Antelope had spent most of the morning seated on a blanket in front of his lodge. He was pleased to be bathing the wounded leg in the soothing effects of the late-morning sun. Spotted Fawn, his father’s most favored helper, had brought him food and drink and had long since taken away the remnants of the meal. He now felt contentment and allowed his thoughts to travel out to the vast grasslands to the west where he knew his Birdsong to somewhere be.
An uneasy feeling slowly transformed itself into a sense of dread. It had begun as no more than just a small, insignificant discomfort somewhere in the pit of his stomach, but quickly grew into an undeniable concern that engulfed him to the point of near-total commitment.
Puzzled and worried, he searched his being. He soon found himself unable to isolate its cause, yet knew that something was not as it should be. His concern finally centered on Birdsong and he sensed that she was at that very moment in great danger.
*
The painted-one stumbled and nearly fell, but was able to continue after slowing enough to regain her balance. Birdsong looked over her shoulder with fear-filled eyes. The beasts had not only gained on them, but were now all around her and the panic-stricken pony. She realized the difference in the animal’s gait and felt sorrow for the frightening effects the stampeding buffalo had forced on the pony.
Birdsong turned forward with barely enough time to prepare herself. The badly-tiring pony again stumbled. This time the struggling animal was unable to recover and they went down.
She was flung savagely over the animal’s head and hit the ground hard. She tumbled head over heels, coming to rest in the lush grass that was deceitfully comforting under the circumstances.
Any pleasant thoughts she may have had regarding it were short-lived, though, as the roar that was all around her was punctuated by the terror-filled scream of the painted pony as it was trampled under the unrelenting hooves of the thundering herd.
The next thing she knew, she could see only the slobbering mouth, flaring nostrils and craze-filled savage red eyes of a huge beast as its bulk blocked out everything, including the sun. She then caught a fleeting glimpse of an oncoming hoof. She attempted to turn away, but to no avail.
*
She awoke some time later to the sound of voices. She had been exposed to the Arapaho tongue at an early age and had learned enough over her twenty-two summers to converse on a level that was sufficient to get by. She was also fluent in Spanish, which was an additional means by which a great number of tribes in the area, including the Arapaho, used to communicate with one another.
She ignored their speculations as to her condition, while she allowed her own thoughts to assess her injuries. Her head throbbed with a dull pain that threatened to lift the top of it away from the rest of her. She wondered briefly if the hated Arapaho had already removed her hair. With great effort she reached to the top of her head and was satisfied that it was still where it belonged.
“She has awakened,” a voice said, gruffly.
Birdsong forced herself onto her side and was only then able to see the speaker. He was muscular, with handsome features and a sneer on his lips that overshadowed anything else that might have otherwise been of a pleasant nature about him. She refused to respond and instead attempted to work herself to a sitting position.
“You are Comanche. Why are you here? Why did you ride your worthless pony in front of the buffalo?” he asked disdainfully. He gestured toward the painted-one. “Your pony is dead. This has brought bad luck to the taking of the buffalo. I think I will kill you now.” He knelt and pulled his knife, placing the blade against her throat.
Although rightfully concerned, Birdsong was not one to be intimidated by this or any other Arapaho dog. She tightened her jaw and thrusting her chin upward, exposed her neck so that he could do his killing swiftly.
“Do as you like,” she said softly, “but I am no threat to you. Any bad luck to your hunt is because of your unwillingness to ride your own pony fast enough to catch the fleeing buffalo.”
Silence surrounded them as he digested the strength of the injured woman.
“You speak mighty words,” he said once he’d decided to not kill her. “Why are you not afraid?”
Of course she was afraid. She had wet herself just after he had touched the blade to her neck. “You are mistaken. I am very much afraid. I am afraid that my head will fall off from the pain it is experiencing. I am afraid that because my pony is dead I will be forced to walk for the remainder of my days. And I am afraid that you and your people will have nothing to eat when the cold winter comes because you were unable to catch but a single insignificant Comanche squaw.” She forced a weak, disarming smile.
He started to react favorably to the smile, but caught himself in time and instead retreated into a stoic demeanor. “What is your name?” he asked as he replaced the knife into the sheath at his waist.
Relieved, she immediately began to breathe easier. “I am called Birdsong. I was attempting to return to my people when I so clumsily blundered in the path of your hunt. I-I am sorry to cost the Arapaho hunters their prey.” She bowed her head submissively.
“You did not cause us the loss of the buffalo,” he admitted. “I was just saying those things to make you feel ashamed for being where you should not have been. We killed many of the beasts before you intervened.” He grinned with superiority.
Her first reaction was to berate him for lying to her, but as her better sense kicked in she instead said, “You are a very wise warrior. I can see that I was obviously wrong about your abilities as a great hunter, as well.”
She could see his chest puff out noticeably. The ploy had worked.
“Come…I will help you to your feet so that we may decide what to do with you.”
She was thankful for his support as she pulled her legs under her and painfully worked her way to an unsteady, standing position
Chapter 2
One Eye listened with interest to his adopted son.
“I feel strongly that she has found trouble,” Running Antelope said.
“You have reason to feel this way?”
“Well, no, it’s just that--”
“Then maybe we should wait for a sign; she is a strong woman. Besides…Bear Cub is with her.”
Running Antelope knew in the very depths of his heart that his father was probably right. Birdsong was indeed a strong person and Bear Cub would protect her with his life. “Of course you are right, my father,” Running Antelope said. Despite his concession, Running Antelope was not at all ready to accept that either she or Bear Cub were completely safe.
The sounds of a slight commotion drew their attention. They looked across the center clearing to see Lame One riding toward them with a body draped in front of him across his pony’s withers. He came to a halt in front of One Eye’s lodge.
There was sadness in his voice as he said, gravely, “It is the body of my good friend, Bear Cub. He has been killed.”
*
Birdsong watched from the sparse shade of the lone, spindly, pinon as the Arapaho women busied themselves skinning and butchering the fallen buffalo carcasses. The hunt had indeed been successful, just as the warrior had said. There was certainly sufficient meat for the coming winter.
She strained against her bindings, but to no avail. She had been tied very tightly. The injury to her head was painful, but had been cleansed by an Arapaho maiden and would be alright for the time being.
“Are your bindings too tight?”
Birdsong looked up to see the same brave as before. “They are tight enough to keep me captive, but not so tight to give you the pleasure of seeing me writher in pain.”
Runs With The Buffalo knelt behind her and inspected her bindings with a couple of gentle tugs. “These are much too tight,” he said and drew his knife. He sawed at the rawhide until it parted.
Birdsong felt an immediate warming sensation as the circulation began to return to her wrists and hands. She rubbed each wrist in turn--thankful for the respite, however brief it might prove to be. “Thank you for cutting my bindings,” she said with sincerity.
“You will not leave,” he said flatly and rose.
She watched as he went to an old woman who was busy with the task of stacking chunks of meat on a travois. He said something to her and she responded by reaching into the leather pouch at her side and retrieving a length of rawhide.
He brought it with him as he returned to Birdsong. “I cannot leave you untied,” he said, almost apologetically, “but you do not need to be tied so tightly as before.”
“I understand,” she said and again put her hands behind her back.
He gestured, indicating for her to bring her hands around to the front. “I think you are not such a threat that you need to be tied in such a way.”
She smiled her thanks and crossed her wrists in front of her.
He bound the wrists, being careful to not pinch any skin or draw the rawhide so tightly that her veins popped out. When he’d finished, he gave his handiwork a final inspection, rose and wordlessly walked away.
“Thank you,” she called after him.
He didn’t look back as he acknowledged her appreciation with a dismissing wave back over his shoulder.
*
As Lame One described the gruesome scene he’d found to Running Antelope and Chief One Eye, he told of finding the bodies of others as well as a white-eyes’ pony that had been slain. They listened intently until he’d finished.
“How many others were dead?” Running Antelope asked.
“There were two that I saw. One was the Mexican pig called Sancho, while the other was another of the filthy Mexicans that has been with him in our village, a few days before.”
“You did not see the Comanche woman called Birdsong?” One Eye asked.
“No, I did not. Just the two I have described.”
One Eye grew thoughtful. Finally, looking up, he said, “You have done well Lame One. You will go now to be with your friend Bear Cub while the women prepare him for his journey to the hunting trail that crosses the sky.” He’d waved overhead as he spoke the words. “Go now.”
Lame One started to leave, then turned back to face them. He remained silent as he glanced first at Running Antelope then rested his gaze on his chief.
“You are troubled?” One Eye asked.
“Eh…no. I am not troubled, my chief. I just wanted to ask if when warriors are sent out to find the new healing one…I ask that I may be allowed to go as well. I…I…Bear Cub was my best friend and I think he has given his life for her. I would ask that I be allowed to help complete his task and bring her back to our village.” He bowed his head respectfully.
Lame One was but fourteen grasses and had not yet become a man. It was a bold move that he even ask to be included in such an endeavor as this. He looked-on obediently as Chief One Eye and Sub-Chief Running Antelope conversed in muted tones. He shifted his weight nervously from first one foot, then the other, then back to the first.
He was just figuring that he’d made a grave mistake by asking such a thing when Running Antelope said, “You will go now to help prepare Bear Cub for his journey.”
Lame One felt dejection. He was not to be allowed his request. He solemnly turned to leave.
Running Antelope continued, “Lame One?”
He stopped and turned to face Running Antelope. “Yes,” he replied, with downcast eyes and obvious despondency.
“Once we have formed a search party, you will be allowed to accompany it.”
Lame One looked up and grinned. “Thank you,” he said simply and limped very noticeably as he led away the pony with Bear Cub’s body still draped across it.
*
The preparation and arranging of the meat lasted the remainder of the day and even into the graying stillness of dusk. Small fires had been built with portions of the meat slowly cooking over them, sending delicious smells into the air all around.
Birdsong’s stomach rumbled from her desire for nourishment. The wound to her head was of little concern. It had been but a glancing blow and had barely broken the skin. She touched fingertips to it and decided that, despite the lumpy tenderness she felt, it had been cleansed so well that it would probably not need any further attention. She was grateful to the young maiden who had cared for it.
With the completion of the hard days work, came a time of togetherness and storytelling for the Arapaho hunting party. As the hunters spoke of the day’s exploits, while boasting of their skills in taking the mighty buffalo, Birdsong allowed her thoughts to escape back to the Penateka village and Running Antelope. She quickly grew despondent.
“You are hungry?” asked the same brave as before.
Pushing her sadness aside, she looked up at him. “What is your name?” she asked.
He knelt, placing the chunk of cooked meat on the lap of her dress. She looked at it, anxious to taste it.
“I am called Runs With The Buffalo,” he said as he began to fumble with the leather thong that imprisoned her wrists.
She smiled at the sound of his name, remembering their previous encounter when he had taken the opportunity to belittle her. She then felt a confusion that even though the Arapaho were hated enemies of the Comanche, she felt no such hatred for this man nor any of the others around her. She decided to not make the mistake of trying to get back at him. “Is that not a name that would be better suited to someone else?” she asked while being sure to accompany the words with a disarming smile.
He returned the expression, knowing full well that she was attempting to tease him, rather than embarrass him. “There is no longer the need to keep you bound,” he said, changing the subject. He gestured around them at the surrounding emptiness of the vast grasslands. “There would be no suitable place for you to hide.”
The rawhide tie came free and he began to wind the leather strip around his palm as she reached for the piece of meat.
She offered it out to him.
He shook his head. “I have already eaten,” he informed her.
Ne nodded, placed it to her mouth and savagely wrenched off a huge bite.
*
It had been decided by the council that riders were to be sent out with instructions to spread the word among the many different bands of Comanches. The country they occupied stretched from as far north as the Dakotas to as far south as southern Texas. If she were alive, it was felt that word would quickly find its way back to the Penateka.
Once the scouts had departed, a small search party was organized. This included; Lame One as promised, Owl Feather, Coyote Ears, and against everyone’s better judgment, except his own, Running Antelope himself, who had to be helped astride his pony.
“Be careful, my son,” One Eye offered as he lightly laid a hand on Running Antelope’s injured leg. “I truly hope you will not find that you have made a mistake by going on such a journey as this.”
“My leg is much better now, my father,” Running Antelope replied. “But this is only because of the care and wisdom of Birdsong. Had it not been for her and her knowledge of the use of the healing plants, I would probably have died days ago. A little discomfort will be a small price to pay for the extra suns her healing hands have already given to me.”
One Eye nodded. “Of course you are right, my son. This is indeed so. But take care just the same.”
The search party rode slowly through the village amidst the hopes and encouraging words of the remaining members of the tribe. Birdsong was not as yet known to many of them, but it was general knowledge that Chief Running Antelope was drawn to her. Because he was the most favored sub chief in the entire village, that was enough for each of them to long for success on their search and her safe return.
Her position as the new healing one had been established as the result of a trade. After Mary Jane Greenberg and the other three children had been taken from the white man’s wagons, it had been intended that they would be sold to Miguel Sancho and his band of banditos in exchange for warm blankets to help ward off the chilling effects of the coming winter.
When that trade had fallen through, because of mistakes and insolence on Sancho’s part, and because Birdsong’s knowledge of the healing herbs and plants had allowed her to satisfactorily nurse Running Antelope’s injured leg well enough to keep him free from the life-threatening, angry-red infection, she had proposed that she become the new healing one to replace the aged Buffalo Horn. This was to be in trade for the release of the white-eyes children.
With the trade having been agreed upon, she and Bear Cub had set out to return the freed captives to the wagons.
During the journey, Sancho and his band had ambushed them. The resulting fight had culminated with the death of not only Miguel Sancho, but Bear Cub as well, after he’d unselfishly diverted attention to himself to save Birdsong’s life.
With nothing else to go on, the site of the ambush was where the search party had decided to begin their attempts at tracking Birdsong. Lame One led the way as the village disappeared beyond the horizon behind them.
*
They arrived after nearly three hours of steady riding. The area was an oasis of brush and thickets in an otherwise nearly barren section of the plains that was sprinkled only with an occasional yucca and prickly pear.
They rode into the clumps of vegetation until they emerged into a clearing of sorts where the bodies lay strewn.
The motionless body of the disrespectful pig, Sancho, was the first to draw Running Antelope’s attention. A weapon had been plunged into the front of his neck and dried blood had turned his clothing a dark shade of brown. The other Mexican pig had died equally as brutally. His stomach had been ripped open with a blade, exposing the entrails that were now shriveled from the effects of the drying sun. Both of the wounds were covered with hungry buzzing flies and hoards of the wiggling white worms that would soon become flies as well.
Running Antelope smiled knowingly at the effectiveness of the Comanche knives that had made short work of the two banditos. He glanced around. Addressing Lame One, he asked, “Did you look into the bushes for other bodies?”
“No, my chief, I did not,” he replied, apologetically, hoping he was not in trouble for not having been more thorough.
“All of you will go into the bushes to see if there are any others who have been killed,” Running Antelope said. He hoped they would not find the body of his Birdsong, but if she had perished in this place, it was better to know now.
Coyote Ears and Owl Feather disappeared into the bushes to the north, while Lame One went to the east. With some difficulty Running Antelope dismounted. He took the time to remove the pistols and belts of bullets from the two bodies. He had a workable knowledge of their use and thought they might be of value at a later time.
He had just completed his task when Owl Feather called from a short distance away, “There is a body in the bushes over here!”
Running Antelope’s throat tightened and his chest constricted with apprehension; it could easily be that of Birdsong. He dropped the newly-acquired weapons in a pile at his pony’s front feet and hurried as best he could in the direction of the words. He quickly reached Owl Feather just as the others began to arrive on horseback.
“It is another of the filthy Mexicans,” Owl Feather said as Running Antelope, to his great relief, had already made that discernment.
“Take his weapons,” Running Antelope said solemnly. “Were there any signs of other bodies?” he asked.
“I saw nothing,” said Coyote Ears.
Owl Feather knelt and removed the Mexican’s pistol, handing it to Running Antelope.
Running Antelope slipped the weapon into the small pouch he kept tied around his waist while Coyote Ears pulled the crossed belts of bullets over the dead man’s head and slung them over his own, sticking his arms through in the process. He adjusted them across his chest while grinning.
Running Antelope looked at Lame One. “Did you see signs of others who may have died here?” he asked again.
“I saw nothing,” Lame One replied.
“Good,” Running Antelope said and looked off to the west. Pointing, he said, “Then we will go that way.”
Chapter 3
The ground was dry and hard-packed from many days without rain, coupled with the scorching effects of the sun. Signs were faint, but not so faint that Coyote Ears could not find the trail. It led due west and it was obvious that the horses that had left the signs had been running.
With Coyote Ears in the lead, they continued at a slow pace. He was the best tracker in the entire village, yet even his abilities were being sorely tested. Many times he was forced to dismount and examine the ground with exploring fingertips. At one point he and the others had felt that the trail had been lost entirely. With that in mind, they spread out while they searched in a zigzag pattern. Finally their efforts were rewarded by the discovery of a scattering of relatively fresh droppings.
With the direction again planted firmly in their minds, they picked up the pace until they came to a sparse stand of cottonwoods that ringed a small pond. They dismounted at the water’s edge and drank deeply while their ponies did the same.
The faint smell of ashes teased Running Antelope’s nostrils. He stood and glanced around. His gaze came to rest on a dark splotch on the opposite side of the pond. He led his pony around to it and knelt beside the remains of a fire. He placed a hand against the blackness of the ashes. They were cold. “They stopped here for the night,” he said to the others. He then looked to the west in the direction of the blaze orange and pink sunset. “We, too, will also make our camp here for the night.”
*
“Why am I being held captive?” Birdsong asked Runs With The Buffalo. “I have done nothing to deserve being taken from my journey home to the Penateka.
“No, you have done nothing to deserve such treatment,” he replied. “But it remains that a fine woman such as you will bring a handsome price in a trade with the Utes.”
She could hardly believe her ears. These Arapaho were actually on friendly terms with the treacherous Utes. “How is it that the Arapaho are friends with the Ute Nation?” she asked.
He chuckled softly. “We are not so stupid as to be friends with the Utes. There is a small band that has been cast-off that we have found need of. A deranged warrior called Crooked Face leads it. He and his followers are but filthy dogs in our eyes, but they have discovered ways of acquiring a good price when selling captives to the Mexican pigs that trade in such things. It has proven to be worth the dangers involved for us to deal with them.
Birdsong’s thoughts went briefly to the one called Sancho. She wondered if he could be the same man who dealt with the renegade Utes, as well as the Penateka. “Do you know the name of the Mexican pig who bargains in the sorrows of unsuspecting captives?”
“His name is Sancho. He is a man who has a savage liking for the plight of others…especially women and young girls.”
Birdsong chuckled.
“Why do you laugh?”
“Because I am pleased that Miguel Sancho is no more.”
His brow furrowed while his eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?” he asked with great concern.
“Because I twisted my knife into the front of his neck and felt his life’s blood wash over my hands. I killed him like the stinking pig that he was.”
Runs With The Buffalo remained silent, thinking. After a brief period of reflection, he said, “I too am glad that this man is no more, but this will anger Crooked Face and his band of Utes. Although it is late in the day, we must tell my chief.” He began to untie her feet. As he worked, he said, “My village is near. We will go there and give this news to our leaders.” He pulled the previously-confining rawhide thong free from around her ankles and discarded it haphazardly into the grass. He then went to work on the bindings that secured her wrists.
Birdsong had long since realized that when she hadn’t returned to the Penateka village in a reasonable length of time, Running Antelope would send a search party to find her. She also knew that this would require her to leave a trail for them to follow. When they came to this place where the buffalo had been slain, it would appear as just another hunt in preparation for the coming winter by one of the many tribes that roamed the plains. There would be no way of understanding that she had been taken by the hunters unless she left such a sign and, through a favor from the gods, they were able to find it.
Runs With The Buffalo completed his task and rose, assisting her to her feet beside him. “We will acquire a pony for you and return to my village ahead of the others,” he said and glanced around. “Come…there is an extra one over there.” He pointed.
Birdsong followed him dutifully, but not before removing her colorful necklace and letting it fall to the ground beside the strips of rawhide that had imprisoned her. She smiled knowingly as she subtly glanced back over her shoulder.
*
The searching Penateka rode all the next day until nearly dark. Running Antelope was plagued by images of his Birdsong in need of his help and was unwilling to accept anything less than finding her dead body if that was what was to be. But with the loyalty born of his true love for her, and the dedication from those who were willing to do the bidding of their beloved sub chief, the foursome pressed on with undaunted determination.
They made camp late that evening amidst a scant gathering of mesquite and sage that offered little in the way of comfort or protection. Knowing that they had long since entered the lands of the Arapaho, they posted a guard. Lame One asked to be the first to be allowed to remain alert for any signs that might indicate trouble.
They did not make a fire and ate a sparse meal. They went to sleep just after dark with Lame One having been instructed to wake Coyote Ears when he felt the need. At that time the responsibility of insuring their safety would next fall on the shoulders of Coyote Ears, then Owl Feather, and finally, Running Antelope himself.
*
The ride into the night was but a short one. Runs With The Buffalo had been correct in saying that his village was near. During the journey Birdsong had thought repeatedly of how, under different circumstances, it would have been easy to gallop her pony away into the darkness and make good her escape. But Runs With The Buffalo had taken the precaution of linking their ponies together with a length of braided deerskin.
Once they arrived they rode straight to the center of what was to her an obviously hastily-put-together encampment. She was correct in assuming that this was not the Arapaho’s permanent village.
It was not so late that the village was asleep and once they had slowed to a stop, they were surrounded almost immediately. They slid off the ponies with Runs With The Buffalo taking her by the elbow as he directed her to a festively-decorated lodge that shown brightly in the reflections of a nearby cooking fire. The front of the lodge was replete with two mangy-looking dogs lying one at either side of the entrance. They lifted their heads with sudden interest and snarled a warning as she and Runs With The Buffalo drew near.
He tugged her to a halt. “We will wait here,” he said simply. “The dogs are mean and have been told to bite those who approach without permission.”
The snarling continued until the flap flew back and a very old man slowly emerged. Two young maidens who were obviously in good favor with the dogs assisted him.
“Why have you returned without the others, Runs With The Buffalo? And who is this Comanche woman?” He gestured with a wave of his hand toward Birdsong.
“She has said that her name is Birdsong. She is of the Penateka. She was caught in the running of the buffalo and suffered greatly for her indiscretion. I have brought her here to tell you of how she has killed the one called Sancho.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed in the firelight. “Is this true? Have you killed the Mexican who trades with our people and the Ute?”
Birdsong was not one to bear falsehoods to a chief, even an Arapaho one. “This is true,” she said softly and lowered her eyes in respect.
“Hmmm. How was this possible? You are but a woman, and he was a strong and ruthless man?”
She looked up. “It was as you say, but the difference was that he was a strong, but stupid, ruthless man. He made the mistake of underestimating his adversary.” She looked around her. “I do not make the same mistake.”
“Maybe you are a wise Comanche woman. Why did you kill him?”
“Because he was a vile and uncaring person who deserved to die,” she said as she looked at the vicious scar that began at the center of his forehead and ran diagonally down across his right eye until it came to an end just short of the base of his jaw.
“And you are a caring person?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yes…I am a caring person. I am the healing one for the Penateka. I have great caring in my heart for helping those with a need.”
A flash of something appeared in his eyes that made her wonder why her statement had affected him so. She decided on a different approach. “You are the great Arapaho Chief, Scar Of Much Courage, is this not so?”
A tiny smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “You know of me?” he asked.
“Everyone among the Comanche who has lived past the age of three grasses knows of such a mighty chief as you. Yes, I know of you.”
“And what do you know of me?” he asked with genuine concern. “Am I ruthless? Am I savage? Do I have a desire to kill anyone who dares to come into my village that is not of the Arapaho blood? Do I have a desire to kill one who has slain the Mexican who trades with the Utes?”
Birdsong saw a gentleness in him as he spoke the words. She knew that none of these things were true. “I do not believe that any of these things are true,” she said and glanced at the two dogs. They were lying placidly nearby, but remained attentive. Feeling a sense of needing to gain Scar Of Much Courage’s confidence, and sensing that the animals would not serve one who was as ruthless as he would like some people to believe, she instead of answering his questions, turned and slowly approached the animals.
They both immediately began to growl softly, then rose to their feet and showed their teeth from between curled lips. She wondered if she were making a foolish mistake and glanced momentarily at Scar Of Much Courage.
He remained stoic as he folded his arms across his chest.
She swallowed her trepidation and knelt as she held out a tentative hand to the nearest of the dogs. She was pleased that the animal elected to not bite her. Instead, the dog sniffed the hand, then licked at it, and finally ducked his head under her palm. She petted him with immeasurably relief.
“Come into my lodge,” Scar Of Much Courage,” said flatly and ducked through the flap.
Birdsong looked up at Runs With The Buffalo. He held an inviting palm toward the entrance from behind raised eyebrows.
She sucked in a much-needed breath and entered.
The interior smelled strongly of blood. A small fire near the center of the lodge shed barely enough light for Birdsong to see a kneeling woman bent over a mat upon which a young girl lay. She was a very young girl in need of immediate attention. There was much blood on the bedding as well as the front of her clothing. Many pieces of blood-soaked cloth had been strewn on the earthen floor. Without hesitation, Birdsong went to the mat and knelt beside the woman.
“She is my granddaughter,” Scar Of Much Courage said from his cross-legged position on the opposite side of the enclosure. “She was curious of a hole under the embankment along the great river and a badger jumped out at her.”
Birdsong had already begun to open the front of the blood-soaked garments. “How long ago did this take place?” she asked while she continued to work.
“Yesterday morning.” the woman replied softly. “Can you be of help to her?”
“She is your daughter?” Birdsong asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes. She is all that I have left,” the woman replied, while struggling to hold back her tears.
Birdsong looked across at Scar Of Much Courage. “Do you not have a healing one in your village?” she asked.
“He is very old and sick. He has tried, but is unable to rise from his death bed.”
“Where is his lodge?”
Scar Of Much Courage clapped his hands twice and the flap immediately flew open, bathing the darkened interior in much-needed silvery moonlight .
One of the maidens entered.
“You will take this Comanche woman to the lodge of Three Fingers.”
The maiden nodded dutifully, bowed in respect and backed out through the entrance.
“I will hopefully return quickly,” Birdsong said to the woman. “While I am gone you will bring fresh water and some cloth that has been recently washed in the river. You will then use it to bathe the wound. Leave nothing to chance and clean as deeply as the pain will allow.” She then placed a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. “If Three Fingers has the needed things, I will be able to help your daughter,” she said softly. “Until I return, leave the entrance covering open so the moon may come inside and the smell of blood may leave.” With that, she turned and ducked her way to the outside.
The maiden led Birdsong to Three Fingers’ lodge amidst the questioning looks of those who had assembled along the way…including Runs With The Buffalo.
As they neared, Birdsong could see that there was no light coming from the inside of the lodge. Gently placing a hand on the girl’s upper arm, she stopped her. “I have need of some light. You will bring a torch from one of the fires.”
“I will do this quickly,” the maiden said and moved away at a trot.
Birdsong ducked into Three Fingers’ lodge and entered the realm of the familiar smells of healing herbs and plants. She folded the flap back to allow as much light in as was possible under the circumstances. She could faintly make out the bulk of a snoring figure asleep on a mat. She went to it and gently shook his shoulder.
Three Fingers was slow to respond, but she remained persistent until, finally, he stirred and with great effort rolled over to face her.
*
Birdsong hastily returned to Scar Of Much Courage’s lodge with her treasure held securely against her chest. She was happy that Three Fingers had indeed had everything that she could have imagined having a need for. She felt that, with proper application, it would now be a simple matter to stave off the angry redness that would otherwise be sure to collect in the badger wound.
She remained outside as she mixed the necessary ingredients under the circle of light cast by a torch and the questioning watchful eyes of the Arapaho tribesmen who remained to watch.
Runs With The Buffalo approached, being mindful to avoid the dogs. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I am preparing the needed remedy to save that young girl in there. Scar Of Much Courage’s granddaughter has been badly mauled by a badger and I have been asked to help her.”
“You can do this?”
“Yes. With the help of Three Fingers’ healing plants I think I can make her well again.”
“Good luck, Birdsong. She is the most important thing in Scar Of Much Courage’s advanced life. He hasn’t much left to him. He would be eternally grateful if she were not taken from him.”
Birdsong nodded grimly. “I will try my best.” Was all she could say and returned her attention to the mixing pot she cradled securely between her knees.
Chapter 4
Running Antelope kept himself relatively awake and somewhat alert by thinking of Birdsong. He refused to believe that she was dead. She could even be back in their village by now. He’d toyed with the idea of sending Lame One back to see if she had in fact returned. But, not wanting to deprive him or any of the others of being a part of finding her, decided to keep them all together until the very end of their search…however it turned out.
Everyone had been pretty much exhausted by the previous day’s ride and continued to sleep as the sun rose above the blanket of grass that covered the nearly-flat countryside. Running Antelope rubbed his leg subconsciously as he watched the wisps of clouds to the east change colors from gray to blue to pink and finally settle on white as the sun spread its golden brilliance across this vast openness the white men called Kansas.
He was experiencing slight pains in the leg, but was only mildly concerned about them. Birdsong had given him some leaves and instructions in their use should the wound develop the need for them. He glanced at the bundle where they were stored safely away. He placed a few sticks on the small fire and smiled in anticipation of the warming effects that was sure to come.
The noises associated with the rebuilding of the fire awoke both Owl Feather and Coyote Ears. They retrieved some food from the storage pouch and brought it to the fire where Lame One had by then also eagerly sought the anticipated warming comforts of the flames. Pieces of cured, dried buffalo meat were handed around, and while the foursome savored the salty taste, the conversation centered on the lack of tracks that was hampering their efforts.
Owl Feather looked at Coyote ears. “Would it not be better to widen the distance between each of us?” he suggested.
Coyote Ears thought about that while he gnawed off another bite. “That might be a good way,” he finally said around the mouthful. “That way we would ride across more hills and valleys at the same time.” He looked at Running Antelope. “What are your thoughts?”