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Authors: Don Coldsmith

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BOOK: Follow the Wind
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Heads Off reined
his gray mare toward the ridge. Perhaps from there he could see some sign. Sun Boy was overhead and they had found no sign of the travelers or of the Head Splitters.
This was a matter of some concern. If the information brought by the girl, South Wind, were correct, the travelers would have been attacked last night. Even though they had been warned, they might have been killed.
The plan of the war party of the People was simple. They knew approximately where the first night camp of the travelers was to have been. The direction of travel was north and it was decided to move so as to cut the trail of the travelers to the north of the night camp. Then, with the plain track of the moving party before them, they could follow rapidly and assist in whatever way they could.
It had seemed a logical plan, but something had gone wrong. In some way, they had missed the trail of the moving strangers. Heads Off was certain they had not crossed it. Both Long Elk and Standing Bird were excellent trackers and both
had seen nothing. Either the travelers had taken another direction for the day's travel or they had been killed in the sneak attack in the night.
Overlooked was the fact that they might be alive but pinned down, unable to move. Thus, the People had passed to the north of the beleaguered party.
Scouts could be sent out, but it was known that Head Splitters were in the area in strength. The scouts would be at great risk, alone and badly outnumbered. They should probably be no further out than to act as outriders to the main force.
Heads Off fretted and chafed under the frustration involved. Time was an important factor. Already, they were a day later in starting than he wished. The party of strangers had been forced to make their initial defense alone.
He turned in the saddle and beckoned to Long Elk, who cantered forward.
“What now, my brother? You have been this way. Where do you think they are?”
Long Elk shrugged.
“We should have crossed their back trail by now. Maybe they turned west.”
“Then we should move south to find them?”
“I think so. Maybe we will find their back trail there.”
South Wind came loping up to the two men. She had insisted on accompanying the war party.
“My chief!” she sounded urgent. “We have missed them somewhere!”
The men nodded and Long Elk spoke.
“Yes, little one. We turn south to try to find their trail. They may have turned west from the night camp.”
“But they may not have!”
She turned to Heads Off.
“My chief, we should go to their last camp! We can read the sign and follow their trail!”
It was so obvious a solution that it had been overlooked. Return to the last location of the missing party.
“South Wind, do you know where they planned to camp?”
“Of course. It is the only good camp within a sleep of here.”
“Lead the way, then.”
He raised an arm and signaled the change in direction. The girl set out at a good stiff lope until finally Long Elk cautioned her.
“
Aiee
, little sister! If we kill our elk-dogs with speed, we are on foot again!”
Heads Off had begun to sense urgency in the attitude of the girl. There must be something not apparent, that she was so concerned over a group of strangers. He rode up beside her, as they walked the horses to rest them.
“South Wind, tell me more of these Hair-faces.”
“There is little to tell, my chief. What did you wish?”
“Why should you care about these strangers? They are of no good to you.”
The girl's eyes filled with tears. She had endured much and had slept little for the past two days. She blurted her story.
“My chief, there is one of the Hair-faces called Rah-mone. He is their war chief and he is special to me. We have good medicine together. I am afraid for his life.”
She paused, embarrassed.
“There is the old man, too,” she continued. “He may be your father!”
He wished to hear more. His mind had reeled in confusion ever since he had heard of the Hair-faces' party. Heads Off had become so thoroughly one of the People that he felt detached. Still, when he heard of people from his previous life, there was a tug of sentimental memory. Sometimes, he felt as if he were two different people. He must know more of these strangers.
“Tell me, South Wind. Do you think this man is my father? What does he look like?”
“I do not know, my chief. He is tall and old. His hair is as white as that of White Buffalo, the medicine man. The fur on his face is white, also.”
She gave a quick side glance and a self-conscious little smile.
“I did not know that would be so. He carries a very big knife that shines in the sunlight.”
Her spread hands indicated what must be a sword.
So far, the physical description could be Don Pedro Garcia. It could also fit a thousand other men.
“Do they ride elk-dogs?”
“Of course. The white-fur rides a gray mare, like yours.”
Correct again, he thought, but still, there are many gray horses.
“How is he called?”
She shook her head.
“I do not know. Their words are strange to my ears. I cannot remember the sounds.”
“Except for Rah-mone,” observed Long Elk, who was listening.
The girl blushed and smiled.
“Yes, tell us more of this Rah-mone.”
“He is tall, nearly as tall as you, my chief. His fur is like yours. He rides a big black elk-dog and carries the big knife instead of a spear.”
Ah, thought Heads Off. An officer.
“What do his warriors carry?”
“Spears, mostly. The ones with spears ride elk-dogs. About this many.”
She held up fingers, first both hands, then one.
“Some walk and carry a strange weapon. It is a short bow, tied to a big stick. It throws a little arrow, very hard.”
Heads Off nodded.
“Any others?”
“Only those who carry supplies. One or two others.”
So, he concluded, a platoon of lancers, a short squad of crossbowmen, and a contingent of servants. From the description, a well-equipped expedition. The name Rah-mone meant nothing to him.
Their mounts were now rested somewhat and they resumed a ground-eating steady canter. It was nearly time to slow to a walk again, when Red Dog, scouting ahead, suddenly turned at the top of a hill and signaled the party forward.
The main group held back to allow the trackers to examine the abandoned campsite. Piles of fluffy white ashes marked the campfires, abandoned only since daylight.
Had there been a fight? Yes, Standing Bird reported. Probably
before dawn. Several had been killed or wounded, judging from bloodstains on the grass in several places.
“Mostly Head Splitters,” observed Long Elk.
Heads Off was astounded.
“How do you know that?”
“There are no bodies. The Head Splitters took them away.”
He pointed south, then turned to indicate a plain trail headed north.
“Hair-faces went that way.”
Long Elk shrugged as if any child could read such sign and pointed to the horse tracks crossing a soft area. All were of uniform depth, none markedly different from the others.
“No elk-dogs with double loads. No bodies.”
Heads Off had not realized the relief such a find would bring. At least, the party had been alive and traveling this morning.
The girl, too, appeared much more optimistic as they turned north again on the trail.
The trackers were in the lead and soon Standing Bird returned to report that the travelers were being harassed by a small war party of Head Splitters. Trampled places in the tall grass were seen, where a defensive circle had been formed. There were a few stray arrows near three places, but no blood or evidence of a fight.
Late in the afternoon, Long Elk signaled. He had found a dead horse, a well-built gray, with an arrow jutting from the upper neck. It had been killed only today.
“Hair-face's horse,” observed Standing Bird, pointing to the shiny military saddle.
Heads Off was more interested in the dead animal. He examined it for some time, then suggested that someone salvage the saddle, and the group moved on. Long Elk, who had discovered the horse, was given the honor of removing the saddle. He immediately gave away his old saddle pad to one of the younger Elk-dog men and the group moved on.
Sun Boy's torch was sinking when Standing Bird again came back to advise caution. They had discovered that the track ahead was all but obliterated by the tracks of a large number of horsemen. The pursuers of the fleeing party had
been joined by more warriors than two men have fingers and toes.
It was decided to camp for the night. It would be madness to pursue a large force of the enemy in darkness in his own country.
There was much frustration, but none quite so severe as that experienced by Heads Off. He was the only one present whose knowledge enabled him to read the entire story of the dead horse. He was the only one of the People who understood the importance of the scar on the animal's shoulder. It was a brand, the gracefully shaped identifying mark placed with a hot iron on the left shoulder of every Andalusian stallion in the stables of Don Pedro Garcia.
Lean Bull lay
stretched on his robe, propped on an elbow so that he could observe the twinkling of the distant fires. He had no desire to sleep. It had been a day of frustration.
Once more he had been thwarted in his effort to crush the young war chief of the Hair-faces. It should have been possible, even easy, to attack the column successfully. Instead, he had lost more warriors.
He felt the slipping of prestige among his followers. It would be necessary to accomplish an overwhelming victory, with many honors counted and many horses captured, to restore his respect.
Lean Bull felt that it had been no more than luck which had enabled the strangers to retreat into the stream bed and make their defense. His mind refused to accept that it could have been good strategy and planning on the part of the young chief.
He did have to admit to the bravery of the Hair-faces. He had been amazed at the charge of the old white-hair, shouting and swinging the long knife. The white-haired chief, it seemed, was experienced in battle.
Lean Bull regretted deeply the loss of the black stallion. He had seen, from a distance, the animal go down and its rider pinned beneath. He was furious, as he had plainly told the entire party that the young chief, as well as the black horse, belonged to Lean Bull. The young warrior with ideas of his own had paid dearly for his initiative. The Head Splitters were still amazed at the efficiency of the strange short weapon used by the crossbowmen.
Lean Bull had tried to reach the place where the young hair-face was unhorsed, but was unable to do so. Then the fight had swept away from the gully and it seemed impractical to make another attack.
No matter. The strangers had lost men, too. At least three, he thought. The spearmen had been struck the hardest, because they had been in the thick of the defense while the others had scrambled for cover.
Lean Bull glanced at the stars and estimated the time until Sun Boy's awakening. The coming sun would see the end of the Hair-faces.
He had carefully studied the terrain before darkness fell. The strangers' position was secure against a small force. They could turn back attacks by Lean Bull's war party. They could find cover behind the cutbank and water in the deeper holes of the creek bed. They had food and, if necessary, could eat their own horses. Such a group might hold out for many sleeps.
But against a larger war party, they could not survive. The defenders could not meet an attack from both sides. There were simply not enough men.
Lean Bull was tempted to divide his party and attack at dawn. Surely, he could overrun the position of the Hair-faces. Prudence held him back, however. He must make certain that the first attack was a success. He questioned whether his warriors would follow him in a second try.
So, they must wait for reinforcements. He had sent word back to the tribe after the failure of surprise in the night camp. There were many aspiring young warriors who would be eager to follow the great Lean Bull into battle.
He estimated that by noon, with Sun Boy's torch overhead, he would have four times as many warriors as the little group
in the gully. Then they would attack from both sides at once. It would soon be over.
He rather hated to share the honors. Much better, had he been able to lead his party to victory without help. If there were only some way to force the defenders out into the open. There, Lean Bull and his horsemen could cut them to pieces almost at leisure. He had racked his brain, but could think of no possible means to accomplish this. The Hair-faces were firmly rooted in the confines of the stream bed.
For a brief time, Lean Bull considered setting fire to the tall grass along the gully. A quick look, however, assured him that the growth was too green to burn. He would be forced to wait.
So, Lean Bull reclined on his robe and fretted, waiting for two things to occur. The first would be the coming of the sun. This would enable him to scout more precisely the condition of the defenders and to determine how best to make the attack.
Second, he must wait for the other warriors from the village. They would be already on the way, he realized. Some might travel through the night. So, the first of the reinforcements might arrive by midmorning. The main body would be present by noon and Lean Bull had already, in his mind, set this as the time for the final attack.
He glanced again at the stars, watching the Seven Hunters swing around their lodge at the Real-star. Time was passing so slowly. Lean Bull was anxious to meet, in individual hand-to-hand combat, the young war chief who had embarrassed him. He was still smarting over the matter of the girl. She was not now available as the object of his vengeance. He would have to be content to vent his wrath on the other half of the pair who had shamed him. Lean Bull's grasp tightened on the handle of his war club and his teeth clenched in rage. He must make certain that no one else reached the young hair-face first. Lean Bull alone must be the one to count honors in the defeat of the hair-faced young chief.
He sighed deeply and rolled over. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, staring to the west.
There, in the far distance, something was blotting out the starry sky. For some distance above the earth's rim, a dense
and growing blackness, deeper than the night's dome, came mushrooming up, obscuring the twinkling lights of the stars.
Even as Lean Bull watched, there was a flicker of orange heat lightning across the face of the cloud bank, next to the horizon. He almost laughed aloud. Again the orange shadow flitted across the blue-blackness of the storm front. This time he noted a tiny streak of real-fire, darting down and stabbing at the earth's surface. Long moments later came the muted rumble of distant thunder, so soft that he would not even have been aware of it if he had not been watching the play of the lightning.
Now he chuckled openly. He could not have planned it better. He had wished for a means to force the defenders up and out of the stream bed. Now, as if in answer to his wish, came one of the summer storms common to the prairie.
Relaxed now, almost happy with anticipation, Lean Bull watched the storm sweep toward them. It might be his best ally now in the fulfilling of his revenge.
BOOK: Follow the Wind
9.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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