DEATH AT NIGHT (Excerpt from The Long Hunt)

(excerpt from The Long Hunt)

Rising Sun sat on a boulder overlooking the other warriors, nestled in camp far below him. It was a good place for the Comanche camp. Hidden, so no one would see them. He was proud of the young warriors to have chosen it as a campsite. They were concealed from all but the most persistent observers, though it irritated him they had built so large a fire. A fire so bright, the light of it could be seen through the brush from along the ridge.

All white men were not so observant, Rising Sun knew. But some were. Tseena would have seen it, he knew. The Wolf would smell it from miles away. Men like the Wolf would be led to the flame, where the scent of cooking meat was carried on the wind across the deep canyon where Rising Sun and his warriors dwelt. Men like the Wolf could find his band of warriors and shoot them down with their repeating rifles and their pistols.

Perhaps, Rising Sun thought, he should have killed the Wolf when he had had the chance. A Texas Ranger. A mortal enemy of the Comanche. But sometimes, it was not right to kill a wolf. There were not many left roaming wild in Comancheria and whenever Rising Sun encountered one of the sacred animals, he did not like to kill them.

The young warriors always shot the wolves, with their arrows or their bullets. But Rising Sun did not. He wouldn’t stop his warriors from killing a wolf. That was between the warrior and the wolf. The medicine man, Ishati, said a wolf pelt could make a warrior invisible, so that he could sneak up on his enemy like the wolf and slit his throat.

Rising Sun did not believe that. Medicine men were always speaking of such things. Rising Sun knew wolves had power, but once dead, he believed their power was gone. Besides, any Comanche should be able to sneak up on his enemy and slit their throat. He had snuck up on many enemies to spill their blood with his knife, and he had never worn a wolf pelt.

Looking down on the warriors celebrating in the camp, Rising Sun knew they were forgetting the old way of the Comanche. Rising Sun knew things his warriors did not know. Things they would never know, now that his people were fading away from the earth forever. He felt it and knew it to be true.

Once, his people had ruled all of Comancheria. No enemy had been able to stand before the might of the Comanche. But now, the Comanche were few. They hid like rodents out on the Llano, where few whites could survive. But game was scarce on the Llano and his people were starving. Their clothing worn thin and frayed. Now, even the strongest of the warriors grew sick from the white man’s diseases and died, wasting away to bones before they were old men.

He had led his people here, to the great canyon, where he could hide them and survive off what game they could scavenge. They killed the white men foolish enough to enter their last domain. But more and more came, and always their bullets brought death to his brave warriors. He could not kill all the white men, as he had believed when he was a young warrior.

Back then, Rising Sun could not have envisioned his proud people broken by the dirty white men and their greasy guns. Rising Sun had killed many of the whites, and still they came, like drops of rain, killing the buffalo and making his people poor.

Rising Sun did not know why he had not killed the Wolf, and so he sat on his rock and prayed. Bad Weather had wanted to kill the Wolf. All the warriors, he knew, had wanted to kill the Wolf. Tseena is a Texas Ranger, the most hated of the whites. But Rising Sun had stopped them. The Wolf had killed Running Deer, and he would kill other Comanche, given the chance, and so Rising Sun prayed, offering his voice to the spirits, his voice rising above the canyon, so the Spirits would give him an answer.

Below Rising Sun, sitting in the glow of the crackling fire, where meat butchered from one of the Ranger’s horses sizzled over the flame, the warriors retold their exploits from the attack on the white trapper. The horse captured from the Ranger provide them with a feast the likes of which they had not seen in many months, and they ate hungrily, grease dripping from their chins, as they took turns reliving the battle.

In the darkness, away from the firelight and the fragrant scent of roasting flesh, lay the body of Running Deer, wrapped in the blankets captured from the trapper. The warriors had not forgotten him, but they did not look toward his lifeless body, fearing his spirit would not approve of their celebration, as his body lay cold. His death was an unwanted reminder of how short a Comanche warrior’s life could be.

Little Arrow held a gray not of hair before the fire, blood still wet and dripping from the flesh. It was an old man’s scalp, and Bad Weather thought it was a poor example of a warrior’s bravery to wield it and tell of how he had stripped it from the old man’s head. The trapper had died poorly, Bad Weather thought, and he didn’t see glory in singing about the old man who had begged for his life, instead of fighting.

The trapper’s rifle had not even gone off. Only Little Arrow, who came from a poor family, and had no firearms, would claim it as a trophy.

“My arrow was the first to strike the white man!” sang Little Arrow. “He fell with a great cry!”

The orange flame of the fire illuminated Little Arrow as he leaned into its light, singing his song. He held the old man’s captured musket across his folded legs. It was an old rifle, even amongst those who carried their father’s weapons, but Little Arrow did not care. He held the trapper’s scalp high above the firelight, for all to see.

“One day, we will kill all the whites who come into our land!” he boasted, the pride of his kill swelling his heart. He was young, and most warriors did not listen to Little Arrow when he spoke, but now their stomachs were full for the first time in a long while, and they were happy to smile and listen to a young warrior’s dreams.

Bad Weather did not smile. He was thinking of the Texas Ranger who had killed his cousin Running Deer. He would have to carry Running Deer back to the village where his father was awaiting the return of his son. Bad Weather held the Ranger’s rifle across his lap, wanting to add the white man’s scalp to its barrel.

He looked across the fire at Little Arrow. The young warrior had begun to tell his story again, starting from the beginning, when they had come across the tracks of the trapper’s cart. Now, he noticed, Little Arrow had been the one to find the tracks.

“How will you kill all of the whites, Little Arrow?” Bad Weather asked. The warriors grew quiet at the sound of his voice, sensing in it a brewing violence. “Will you kill them with your musket?”

“I will kill them any way I can,” Little Arrow answered. He didn’t like Bad Weather’s rudeness. Feeling powerful holding the scalp and rifle, Little Arrow said, “It is bad your cousin Running Deer was killed by the Texas Ranger, but that is not a reason to be rude to me. I have reason to celebrate. I killed the trapper and took his scalp with my knife!”

“You won’t kill many whites with that old rifle,” Bad Weather said, motioning to the musket with his flattened hand. “Do you have powder and bullets?”

“I have some,” Little Arrow said, his voice growing quiet, skeptical about what Bad Weather was getting at. “I took it from the trapper after I took his scalp.” He held the scalp up again, as if Bad Weather had not seen it.

“That old rifle held much magic for the white trapper,” said Bad Weather, giving Little Arrow a dark smile. “Perhaps it will bring you the same medicine.”

The camp was quiet, as the warriors watched Bad Weather and Little Arrow. Rising Sun’s song drifted softly down to them from the cliffs above.

“Maybe, I will have more medicine with your rifle,” Little Arrow said, growing angry and embarrassed. “I don’t know why you are being rude to me, Bad Weather. I have done nothing to you. You are no better than me!”

Little Arrow looked to the warriors for support but saw no eager faces coming to his defense. They were waiting to support the victor.

His face burning with anger, Little Arrow said, “We saw how much medicine your rifle has today. There were many arrows in the white man, but I saw no bullet holes!”

“I didn’t shoot at the old white man,” Bad Weather said. “I’m saving my bullets for the Ranger.”

“You will not kill the Wolf,” Little Arrow said. “You let him ride away. If you were brave, you would have killed him when you had the chance. You will never see him again.”

Bad Weather stood up. The other warriors watched him like a snake about to strike.

“I am going to kill the Wolf,” he said. “Then, you will see what a scalp is supposed to look like, Little Arrow. Not that old man’s thin hair you can barely hold onto.”

“Rising Sun let the Wolf go, Bad Weather,” said Lame Rabbit, an older warrior who did not often speak, but whose voice carried much weight with the tribe.

Bad Weather hid his disappoint by looking toward the cliff where Rising Sun had gone to pray. He had hoped a respected warrior like Lame Rabbit would support him.

“Just because Rising Sun let the Wolf cross our land,” Bad Weather said, “does not mean I can not kill him. A Comanche chooses his own battles, Lame Rabbit,” he said turning to the elder warrior. “That Ranger killed my cousin Running Deer. He’s killed many Comanche, if the stories are to be believed. He should die, like any other white man who dares cross into Comancheria!”

“If you ride after the Wolf,” Lame Rabbit said, his voice low but strong enough for all to hear, “Rising Sun will not bring you on anymore raids. You are young, Bad Weather. You do not yet know enough to question the decisions of Rising Sun. I too, wanted to kill the Ranger. But Rising Sun is a wise chief. I will follow him no matter where the road leads. Rising Sun has led us to many victories. We are alive now, we are free now, because of his wisdom. It would do you well to listen when Rising Sun speaks.

“Sometimes,” Lame Rabbit went on, turning to face the other warriors so they would all hear his words, “it is not time to kill. A chief warrior must know when to strike and when not to. Lame Rabbit does not always know these things. It takes a great chief to know. You would do well to listen to Rising Sun. He is a great chief.”

The older warrior turned to face Bad Weather again, so that he would hear him, and listen. “If you go after the Wolf, you will anger Rising Sun.”

The older warrior’s words were followed by silence. Everyone knew what it meant to anger Rising Sun. Lame Rabbit pulled his blanket around his shoulders as the other warriors began drifting away, satisfied to have their belly’s full, and to have lived one more day as free Comanches.

Little Arrow remained seated beside the fire, looking up at Bad Weather.

“You should go home and see to Running Deer,” Little Arrow said, making his voice soft. “His father would want you to bring him there.” He reached pulled a strip of horsemeat from the spit, and chewing, said, “If you look for the Wolf who will bring your cousin to the village?”

Bad Weather sneered at Little Arrow. Hidden within the shadows of the firelight, Little Arrow failed to see the anger burning in Bad Weather’s eyes.

“You take him back,” Bad Weather said. “Tell my uncle Strange Eyes that I have gone after the Texan who killed his son. Tell him I went to kill the white man Rising Sun allowed to live.”

Little Arrow looked up, spitting a morsel of horsemeat into the fire.

He said, “He’s your cousin. You carry him. Running Deer died with honor. You should honor him and take him home, where his spirit wants to go.”

Bad Weather stepped past the fire and swung the butt of his rifle, clubbing Little Arrow in the head. Little Arrow fell back onto the ground, his legs flopping out in front of him, twitching. Bad Weather brought the rifle butt down again on the young warrior’s face. Warm blood sprayed out, wetting Bad Weather’s skin, and stilling Little Arrow’s flailing legs. In the wavering light of the fire, Bad Weather looked down at Little Arrows ruined face and the pool of blood spreading out behind his head like a halo.

Lame Rabbit and those few warriors still lingering beside the fire looked up at Bad Weather, who had murdered the young warrior before any of them could have stopped him. Lame Rabbit stood, his hand gripping the bone-handled knife at his belt. Bad Weather turned the Henry’s barrel toward the warrior and cocked the hammer.

“You have done a bad thing, Bad Weather,” Lame Rabbit said, looking the younger warrior in the eyes. “You will pay for what you have done.”

Bad Weather backed away, slipping into the dark shadows of night and keeping his rifle trained on the warriors who were rising out of their blankets.

“Do not try to stop me!” he shouted at them, waving the Henry in an arc.

They watched him go, until the darkness overtook him, and the sound of his pony racing out of the canyon echoed back to them. Lame Rabbit sent a warrior to bring Rising Sun down from the cliff and in the pale moonlight and dying fire, the chief looked down at the slain warrior.

“Do we ride after him?” Lame Deer asked the chief.

“No,” answered Rising Sun after a few moments. “In the morning, we will take Little Arrow and Running Deer back to the village, to their families. I will see to Bad Weather.”

Lame Rabbit nodded, looking down at Little Arrow’s corpse, happy he was not a chief to make such decisions. He was even happier he had not incurred the wrath of one.