Sidewinder (5 page)

* * *

It might appear strange that the son of one of Texas’ best-loved and most respected men — and a noted lawyer in his own right — should be sleeping in the barn of the Rock Fall relay station when Wells Fargo provided reasonable accommodation for its passengers. Yet Temple Houston did so while waiting for the stagecoach to continue its journey to Fort Sorrel.

A man as tall as Mark Counter and almost as broad across the shoulders, Houston did not slim down so much at the middle, but still gave the impression of great strength. He wore a fringed buckskin jacket over a white, frilly bosomed shirt and necktie made from a rattlesnake’s hide; levis pants hanging cowhand style outside his riding boots. Flaxen hair framed a strong, intelligent face tanned by much out-door living. Hanging on the wall of the stall close by him were a costly white Stetson hat of Texas fashion, and a good quality gunbelt with an ivory handled Army Colt in the contoured cross-draw holster at the left side.

While young, Temple Houston had the name for being a shrewd lawyer. He also possessed his father’s ability to rub shoulders with all classes of people and win their respect. Like Sam Houston, Temple knew the Comanche and aimed to do all he could to make the treaty-signing a success.

Travelling to Fort Sorrel by stagecoach had seemed like a real good idea, especially as he aimed to take along his highly prized Plott hound. Officers on frontier posts eagerly sought diversions to relieve the boredom and were not averse to making bets in hard cash on a variety of things. So Houston brought along a dog speedy enough to run down a fleeing coyote; knowing he stood a good chance of meeting men who refused to believe it possible and willing to lay money on their belief.

Unfortunately the coach already held passengers; two U.S. senators on their way to Fort Sorrel and one of the pair’s daughter. A remarkably pretty and shapely young woman, she brought to frontier Texas a touch of elegant city life — and a barbered, yapping French poodle complete with a pink bow in its top-knot. Any hope Houston might have held of a mild flirtation went out of the window as Lazy, the seventy-five pound Plott hound* demonstrated a laudable desire to tear the noisy white bundle to ribbons. Miss Corneia Waterhouse, only daughter of Senator Jubal V. Waterhouse from New Jersey, was not amused.

Relations had become strained during the journey. At the relay station a further party of politicians awaited the stage’s arrival and Amelia found that she must share a room with the wives of two Democrat senators who stated their objection to having a Republican’s dog in with them. Not wishing to have Lazy in the same building with the poodle, Houston took the Plott into the barn. On hearing the beginning of the inter-party wrangling on his return, the Texan decided to join his dog in preference to listening to politicians squabble all night.

Having seen Houston board the stage at his home on the edge of Austin and followed in the hope of finding a chance to carry out the Death Bringer’s orders, the two
Waw’ai
braves waited until after midnight and then slipped silently towards the barn.

Silent they might move to human ears, but the big Plott heard them as he lay close to his sleeping master. Deep and low a growl rumbled in the dog’s throat and Houston woke instantly. Seeing the door of the barn start to inch slowly open, he silenced the dog with a gesture and drew his Colt. A lantern glowed over the door, in case anybody arrived during the night and wished to put up a horse. Watching the patch of light, Houston saw first one and then the other Indian slide through it.

One glance told Houston all he needed to know, although he put the visit down to a raiding mission on the stabled horses. So it came as something of a surprise when he saw the men, knives in hand, making straight for him. Lazy tugged at the restraining hand on his collar and the Indians saw the movement.

‘Kill!’ hissed the taller brave and lunged forward.

With a roaring snarl, Lazy tore free from Houston’s grasp and hurled upwards at the Indian. Seventy-five pounds of hard-muscled fighting dog drove at the
Waw’ai
and took him by surprise. Only just in time did he throw up his arm to defend his throat and Lazy’s jaws gripped it with crushing power. Hurled backwards by the big hound’s weight, the
Waw’ai
tripped and crashed to the ground.

Houston’s Colt roared, sending a bullet into the head of the second
Waw’ai
as the Indian started to leap forward in his direction. Knowing what the
Waw’ai’s
state of undress and grease-coated body meant, the big Texan took no chances and shot for an instant kill. Unlike the unfortunate Colonel Huckfield, Houston held a revolver adequate to his needs and rolled aside to avoid a dead Indian falling on to him. Not quite sure how many enemies might be on hand, Houston rose, dived over the side of the stall and into the welcome shadows beyond. He heard voices raised at the main building and came cautiously to his feet. A change in the sound of the
Waw’ai’s
screams told Houston that Lazy did good work.

Moving forward, Houston approached where the dog and Indian struggled on the floor. After paralysing the man’s right arm, Lazy chopped at the left and caused it to be jerked away, Every Plott was a vicious fighter, born with a killer instinct invaluable in a hunting dog. So Lazy drove for the man’s throat and powerful jaws sank the long canine teeth home savagely into flesh. Although Houston sprang forward as soon as he knew he could do so without winding up taking yet another
Waw’ai’s
knife in his back, he arrived and dragged Lazy away too late to save the Plott’s victim, Blood spurted from a hideous wound in the
Waw’ai’s
throat, pulsing forth in a manner which told of a severed large artery or vein,

‘You sure made a mess of him, Lazy,’ Houston told the Plott as men came running towards the barn, ‘It’s a pity, I’d sure like to have asked him what brings
Waw’ais
down this way hunting sca1ps. Know one thing, though. This isn’t going to make that pretty lil Eastern gal feel one bit happier to know me, way she talked about Indians.’

oooOooo

* For a description and information about the Plott Hound read
Hound Dog Man.

CHAPTER FIVE

ERECTED close to the Kicking Horse Creek about three miles above where it flowed into the Brazos River, the
Waw’ai
camp appeared on the surface to be little different to any other Comanche band’s village. Some fifty tipis, built on the four-pole foundation and tilted slightly backwards in the
Nemenuh
fashion, formed a rough circle around the dwelling of the chief. Close to each tipi stood tethered the owner’s favourite horse so as to be instantly available if needed.

It might have been a normal scene but for the absence of old peoples Usually there would have been
tsukup
, old men, supervising Mexican prisoner-apprentices who built saddles, or making bows, shields and arrows to be sold to brave-heart warriors who had no time to waste producing their own.
Pu’ste
, old women, ought to be instructing the
tuepet
girls approaching adolescence, in those things a female Comanche needed to know, but none appeared to be doing so.

Instead the camp held only
tuivitsi
, young unmarried braves, and grown men still capable of riding the war path, unmarried maidens and younger wives; brought along to erect tents, repair clothes and cook food, work beneath the dignity of a Comanche man unless forced by the more dire of circumstances.

All of which would have presented a sinister significance to Billy Salmon, half-breed scout for the U.S. Army, had he been performing his official duties in a loyal manner.

Riding towards the village, Salmon read the signs. He also exhibited a complete lack of caution which either implied great trust in the current peaceful condition existing between the white folks and the majority of Comanches, or some knowledge that ensured his safety.

Engaged in the serious business of sitting before his tipi and waiting the arrival of his next meal, a
tuivitsi
studied the approaching half-breed with cold eyes. Restraining a desire to try out the effect of a recently acquired Spencer carbine on the newcomer, the
tuivitsi
rose and walked to the central tipi. On entering, he looked at the man and woman who occupied it.

‘The half-breed from the Fort is coming,’ he announced.

‘Then let him come,’ ordered the woman, although her companion was war chief of the village. ‘We still need him.’

Despite the fact that a woman usually stood lower than a good horse, though higher than a pack mule, on the Comanche scale of usefulness, the
tuivitsi
did not argue. People who crossed the Death Bringer rarely lived long enough to boast of doing it.

In her youth, the woman known as the Death Bringer had been a mighty pretty Mexican girl. Taller and more slender than the Comanche women, her grace and light feet gave her the name of Fire Dancer among the
Pehnane
. Only occasionally did the Comanche mistreat children prisoners, preferring to keep them alive and healthy as slaves. Eventually the slaves could become accepted as members of the band and enjoyed all the rights of a Comanche by birth.

Certainly Fire Dancer showed no signs of her slave beginnings. Still slender although her hair had turned grey, she wore a buff coloured buckskin dress with luxuriously fringed sleeves and colourful bead designs and spirit patterns. Beaded moccasins graced her feet, but the warm weather did away with the need for the highly ornamented leggings she wore in the winter. Her face still retained traces of its beauty, but bore also a hint of the savage nature underneath.

Although in camp on an ordinary day Sidewinder wore his ornamented elk-skin shirt which extended to below the level of his leggings’ tops and covered his traditional breechclout. He had rattlesnake skin instead of the usual polecat or other fur fringe on his moccasins. Typical Comanche, he was stocky, medium size and his war bonnet framed a face that bore the stamp of real cruelty on it. Around his waist hung a gunbelt with a Green River knife sheathed at the left and a Freeman Army revolver rode holstered at the right. If he objected to his mother giving orders, he hid his feelings admirably.

While not a man sensitive to atmosphere, Salmon never felt entirely easy when in the presence of Sidewinder and the Death Bringer. Yet he knew that his usefulness to them gave him immunity as long as it lasted. When it ended, he would go the way of any other Anny scout should he fail to learn the fact in time.

A tall man, Indian-dark with surly features framed by lank black hair, he dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt, cavalry campaign hat and trousers, and knee-long moccasins. He did not fail to notice the avaricious way in which Sidewinder eyed the Army Colt holstered cavalry-fashion on his belt and wondered how long it would be before the chief decided to take possession of it.

‘Well?’ demanded Fire Dancer.

‘It’s been a long, hard ride,’ Salmon hinted.

‘I’ll have food brought to you,’ she promised. ‘What is the news from the Fort?’

‘Have any of the ones come for the council?’ Sidewinder asked.

‘Goodnight is there,’ Salmon told him uneasily. ‘Also Houston’s son.’

‘I never thought we would have success on all of them,’ commented Fire Dancer philosophically.

‘
Diablo Viejo
could not come,’ Salmon went on and continued before he raised false hopes, ‘but he sent the one called Magic Hands to speak for him, Also the son of “Big” Counter came.’

An almost animal-sounding snarl left Sidewinder’s lips and his mother hissed, ‘These stupid
Waw’ai
dogs. If only they were
Kweharehnuh
or
Pehnane
—’

‘The God-man died and so did Colonel Huckfield.’ Salmon put in, feeling that he had better give his host and hostess some good news.

Both Fire Dancer and her son were aware that one name, the one which interested them both, had not been mentioned.

‘And what of
Cuchilo
?’ snarled the chief, his hand going in an involuntary move to touch his injured legs

Sucking in a deep breath, Salmon avoided his questioner’s eyes and paused as long as he dared before giving an answer he knew would be even more unpopular than the previous news.

‘
Cuchio
lives.’

‘So he still lives!’ Fire Dancer ejaculated in a voice throbbing with hate. ‘And he the one I wanted most to die!’

An even greater uneasiness crept over Salmon as he listened to the woman and wondered at her response to the news that Ysabel Kid had not been murdered. He put the reaction down to Fire Dancer realizing the Kid’s influence on the thinking of the tribal leaders; little knowing that the hatred went much further back than the organization of the treaty council.

For a prisoner, Fire Dancer had done well. She became adopted into the
Pehnane
and married, as fourth wife, a name-warrior called Bitter Root. Defying convention, she worked herself into the position of
pairaivo
, easing the original first wife from their husband’s favour. Everything had been going in keeping with Fire Dancer’s ideas of the fitness of life when her husband provoked a fatal quarrel with Sam Ysabel.

After that Fire Dancer’s numerous sins bounced rapidly back on to her heads The other wives moved fast, repaying her for slights and indignities heaped on them by the young
pairaivo
, Having fathers and brothers to back their claims, the three wives saw that the division of their departed husband’s property satisfied them. From being the rich, spoiled
pairaivo
, Fire Dancer found herself turned into a widow dependant on the charity of the tribe, She blamed her misfortune on Sam Ysabel, although he did not start the fatal fight, and swore revenge against the white man,

With the Latin’s capacity for hate and retaining grudges, she bided her time. Leaving the
Pehnane
, Fire Dancer travelled to the
Kweharehnuh
, Antelope, band of the Comanche and settled among them. Four times she married and each husband met a mysterious death after raising her to
pairaivo
and willing her the bulk of his property. Fire Dancer befriended the
Kweharehnuh
witch-woman to such a degree that she learned many dark and sinister secrets. At last she felt the time had come to return to the
Pehnane
and extract vengeance on Bitter Root’s killer. She failed to achieve anything against Ysabel or his son. In fact her final effort cost several lives and the crippling of her son without bringing about her desire.

Fleeing from the vengeance which she expected to come, Fire Dancer brought her son at last to the
Waw’ai
band. A storm washed out their tracks and the Civil War of the white men further prevented Sam or Loncey Ysabel hunting her down. Among the
Waw’ai
, Fire Dancer gained a reputation as medicine woman and witch while her son developed into first a warrior, then war chief due to her driving will.

With the passing of time Fire Dancer’s hatred of the Ysabels grew and was transferred to the
Pehnane
, then the whole of the Comanche Nations Always she sought for a way in which she might bring ruin to the people who gave her a home and at least as good a life as she might have had in the small Mexican village from which a raiding party snatched her So when the word went out that the old-man chiefs of the major
Nemenuh
bands aimed to make peace, she thought her vengeance might come to nothing.

The peace council had not been arranged in a matter of days but worked for and developed over a period of almost two years. Attending talks in her capacity of
Waw’ai
medicine woman, certain facts became obvious even during the earliest meetings between Comanche and white negotiators. Realizing that peace did not meet with the approval of all white men, including some of those supposedly trying to make it, Fire Dancer turned her natural bent for intrigue and witch woman knowledge to good account. She found the right men and made her proposals. In return for certain concessions, which interested her less than the ultimate effect of her actions on the Comanche people — but proved necessary to lull the white men’s suspicions of her motives — Fire Dancer promised to keep alive the bad-feeling which existed between many of both peoples.

Using Salmon as a go-between, Fire Dancer and her white co-planners exchanged ideas. All the time, while most Comanche bands kept the peace, Sidewinder led his
Waw’ai
braves on raids of the most vicious kind and fed fuel to the flames a very vocal section of the white nation fanned against negotiations with the
Nemenuh
.

Despite that, the peace council was arranged. So too were plans for wrecking it. With the help of her white allies. Fire Dancer sent men out to kill a number of influential friends of the Comanche. From what Salmon just told her, the plan only partially succeeded and the one person she hoped to be dead more than any of the others still remained alive.

‘What other word do you bring from the Fort?’ she asked after what had been a disturbingly long silence for Salmon.

‘The white soldier lance-carriers have been sent to bring in the
Waw’ai
to Fort Sorrel,’ he answered.

‘These I have seen,’ Fire Dancer commented in a flat voice. ‘How many of them come?’

‘Almost a hundred.’

‘And what are they to do?’

‘Make your people come in. Use force if they have to.’

Which meant, as Salmon and Fire Dancer well knew, a fight. Any Comanche still away from the council meeting did not intend to attend and would only be taken there by force. A frown creased Fire Dancer’s brow and Salmon’s uneasiness leapt even higher as he wondered how she took his last piece of news.

‘Sit down,’ she ordered. ‘I will have food for you. Then I must make medicine. Have no fear, friend, you only brought the news.’

Salmon gulped at something which seemed to be blocking his throats Knowing better than argue, he sat on his heels and watched Fire Dancer leave the tipi. Sidewinder did not follow his mother, but hunkered down facing the scout and watched Salmon with cold, unwinking eyes. That did nothing to improve Salmon’s appetite, already made jumpy by the knowledge that Fire Dancer used poison as a means of disposing of people who crossed her. However the scout managed to force a meal of the inevitable stew down and felt no ill-effects from it. With the meal over, he sat faced by the silent chief and waited for Fire Dancer’s returns At last the door-flap lifted and Fire Dancer entered.

‘You can find the lance-carriers?’ she asked without preamble.

‘I reckon I can,’ agreed Salmon. ‘They’re coming down Elk Creek towards Lovatt City. You’ll want me to find them and lead them away from your camp?’

‘No. I want you to find them and bring them here.’

‘Here?’ yelped Salmon and Sidewinder let out a low hiss of breath.

‘Towards this camp,’ confirmed the woman. ‘But bring them through Wide Valley when you come.’

‘I can do that,’ Salmon said, ‘But how about me?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It figures that you’re going to fight them soldiers, so where do I come off? I’ll be with the soldiers and your braves don’t look too careful at who they’re counting coup on when they’re in a fight.’

‘A wise man would make sure that his horse became lame at the right moment,’ purred Fire Dancer. ‘All I ask is that you bring the lance-carriers into Wide Valley for me.’

‘That’ll be easy. I know their leader and he’ll listen to me. By noon in two days’ time, I’ll have them coming into Wide Valley.’

Not until after the scout’s departure did Sidewinder raise the points which troubled him. Sitting in the tipi, he looked at his mother.

‘Aiee! These
Waw’ai
will not have stomach when they see they face lance-carriers,’

‘White-eye lance-carriers,’ corrected Fire Dancers ‘When I was a child in Mexico, I saw lance-carriers and know how they fight. Go and have the camp cried that there will be a War Dance this night and when you return I will tell you how you will defeat the lance-carriers and what you must do after they are beaten.’