The Comanches came to a stop about twenty feet in front of Preacher. He held up a hand, palm out, in the universal sign of peaceful greeting.
As had happened with the Pawnee, one of the warriors rode forward as a spokesman. When the Comanche brought his pony to a stop, Preacher said, “Greetings, brother.”
He hoped his grasp of the Comanch’ lingo wasn’t rusty and he hadn’t told the varmint to go do unspeakable things to himself. The warrior didn’t look offended, so Preacher supposed he had made himself clear.
The man was short and stocky and looked tough as year-old jerky. He said harshly, “Who are you to call a warrior of the Comanche, brother?”
“I am known as Preacher.”
If he had been hoping for a sign of recognition at the mention of his name, he was sorely disappointed. Clearly, it didn’t mean anything to the Comanche.
“I am Lame Buffalo,” the man said, “and I am brother to no white man.”
“Then I would be a friend, if not a brother.”
Lame Buffalo shook his head. “The white men are not friends. They are flies, buzzing around the heads of the Comanche and eating the droppings of our horses. They are to be tolerated, not befriended.”
Preacher turned slightly in the saddle and waved his left hand toward the wagons behind him. “We wish to take our wagons through your land safely. We mean no harm to the Comanche people. We are peaceful traders.”
“You take white man’s goods to the land of the Mexicans?” Lame Buffalo asked.
He knew good and well that’s what they were doing, Preacher thought. Lame Buffalo had probably seen dozens of freight caravans bound for Santa Fe. He might well have looted some of them.
But Preacher just said, “That’s right. We carry only trade goods. No guns.” The Comanches would be more likely to attack the caravan if they thought they might get their hands on some weapons. A few of the band carried flintlocks, but most were armed with bows and arrows or lances.
Preacher doubted Lame Buffalo would take his word, and sure enough, the leader said curtly, “Show me.”
Preacher nodded. “Come with me.”
Turning his back on the Comanches wasn’t easy, but he did it and acted unconcerned as he rode toward the wagons with Lame Buffalo following him. Preacher saw the nervous faces watching them and made a motion with his hand, hoping they would understand he was telling them to stay calm. He smiled at Casey, Lorenzo, Bartlett, and Roland, who sat together on their horses next to the first wagon.
“This is Lame Buffalo,” he told them in English. “He’s gonna take a look at the goods we’re carryin’.”
“Are you going to offer to pay him to let us pass?” Bartlett asked.
“That’s the idea. Be even better if he sees somethin’ that strikes his fancy and suggests that we bargain with him.”
Preacher glanced at the Comanche. Lame Buffalo’s face was still stonily impassive. He gave no sign that he had understood any of the exchange between Preacher and Bartlett.
Preacher spoke to the bullwhacker in charge of the first wagon’s team of oxen, a man named Fawcett. “Pull that canvas back, would you, Cliff?”
Fawcett went to the rear of the wagon and untied the canvas flaps. He threw them open so Lame Buffalo could look into the wagon. The Comanche leaned forward on his pony and frowned as he peered into the vehicle at the crates and barrels stacked in its bed.
“Hold on a minute,” Preacher told him. He dismounted and climbed into the wagon. He pulled his knife from its sheath and used the blade to pry the top off a barrel of sugar. Scooping up a handful of the stuff, he held it out to Lame Buffalo. “Try this.”
The Comanche frowned. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. But he couldn’t resist the temption. He reached out and took a pinch of the sugar from Preacher’s hand.
Preacher pinched some of it between the fingers of his other hand and lifted it to his mouth. He tasted the sugar and licked his lips to show Lame Buffalo how good it was. Still looking wary, Lame Buffalo tried it as well.
The warrior kept his face carefully impassive, but Preacher saw the pleasure that lit up Lame Buffalo’s eyes for a second. He held out his hand for more of the sugar, and Preacher dumped the whole handful in his palm.
Lame Buffalo turned his pony and kicked it into a run toward the rest of the warriors who blocked the trail. He shared the sugar with them. Preacher heard them laughing.
“What’re you doin’, Preacher?” the bullwhacker asked.
“You’ve heard about catchin’ flies with honey, Cliff?” When the man nodded, Preacher went on, “Well, I’m tryin’ to catch some Comanch’ with sugar.”
Several of the warriors let out shrill yips and thrust their lances into the air. Lame Buffalo turned and rode back to join Preacher by the wagon. He pointed to the barrel and said, “We will take it all and not kill you.”
Preacher shook his head. “One bag.”
Lame Buffalo’s face darkened with anger.
“And a bolt of cloth, your choice,” Preacher added.
