This strange being at the fort. Perhaps it was a spirit. Perhaps it was a different type of white man. It was possible, Ten Bears conceded, that the being Kicking Bird had seen was the first of a whole new race of people.
The old headman sighed to himself as his brain filled to overflowing.
There was already so much to do, with the summer hunting. And now this.
He could not come to a conclusion.
Ten Bears decided to call a council.
The meeting convened before sunset, but it lasted long into the evening, long enough to draw the collective attention of the village, especially the young men, who gathered in little groups to speculate about what their elders might be discussing.
After an hour’s worth of preliminaries they got down to business. Kicking Bird related his story. When he was finished Ten Bears solicited the opinions of his fellows.
They were many, and they were wide-ranging.
Wind In His Hair was the youngest among them, an impulsive but seasoned fighter. He thought they should send a party immediately, a party to ride down and shoot arrows into the white man. If he was a god, the arrows would have no effect. If he was mortal, they would have one less hair mouth to worry about. Wind In His Hair would be happy to lead the party.
His suggestion was rejected by the others. If this person was a god, it would not be a good idea to shoot arrows into him. And killing a white man had to be handled with a certain delicacy. A dead white man might produce many more live ones.
Horn Bull was known to be conservative. No one would dare to question his bravery but it was true that he usually opted for discretion in most matters. He made a simple suggestion. Send a delegation to parlay with The Man Who Shines Like Snow.
Wind In His Hair waited until Horn Bull had finished this rather long declaration. Then he leaped on the idea with a vengeance. The gist of his speech pounded home a point that no one cared to dispute. Comanches did not send respected warriors to ask the business of a single puny, trespassing white man.
No one said much after this, and when they began again, the talk shifted to other topics, such as preparations for the hunt and the possibility of sending war parties to various tribes. For another hour the men sifted through scraps of rumor and hard information that might have some bearing on the band’s welfare.
When at last they returned to the touchy question of what to do about the white man, Ten Bears’s eyes were drooping and his head began to nod. There was no point in going any further tonight. The old man was already snoring lightly as they left his lodge.
The matter remained unresolved.
But that did not mean action was not going to be taken.
Any small, close-knit group is hard-pressed to keep secrets, and later that night Horn Bull’s fourteen-year-old son heard his father mumble the essence of the council’s discussion to a visiting uncle. He heard about the fort and the Man Who Shines Like Snow And he heard about the beautiful buckskin horse, the stout little mount Kicking Bird had described as the equal of ten ponies. It fired his imagination.
Horn Bull’s son could not sleep with this knowledge in his head, and late that night he crept out of the lodge to tell his two best friends what he knew, to tell of the grand opportunity he had chanced upon.
As he expected, Frog Back and Smiles A Lot balked at first. There was only one horse. How could one horse be split three ways? That was not much. And the possibility of a white god prowling around down there. That was a lot to think about.
But Horn Bull’s son was ready for them. He’d thought it all out. The white god, that was the best part. Didn’t they all want to take the warpath? And when the time came, wouldn’t they have to accompany veteran warriors? And wasn’t it likely that they would see little direct action? Wasn’t it likely that they would have little chance to distinguish themselves?
But to ride against a white god. Three boys against a god. That would be something. People might make up songs about that. If they pulled it off, the chances were good that all three would soon be leading war parties instead of just following along.
And the horse. Well, Horn Bull’s son would own the horse, but the other two could ride it. They could race it if they wanted.
Now, who can say this is not a great plan?
Their hearts were already thumping as they stole across the river and cut three good mounts out of the pony herd. On foot, they led the horses away from the village, then circled it in a wide arc.
When they were finally clear, the boys kicked their ponies into a gallop, and singing songs to keep their hearts strong, they rode along the darkened prairie, staying close by the stream that would take them directly to Fort Sedgewick.
For two nights Lieutenant Dunbar was all soldier, sleeping with one ear open.
But the teenagers who came did not come like pranksters out for a thrill. They were Comanche boys and they were engaged in the most serious action of their young lives.
Lieutenant Dunbar never heard them come in.
The galloping hooves and the boys’ whooping woke him, but they were only sounds, melting into the vastness of the prairie night, by the time he stumbled through the door of the hut.
The boys rode hard. Everything had gone perfectly. Taking the horse had been easy, and best of all, they had not even seen the white god.
But they were taking no chances. Gods could do many fantastic things, particularly when angered. The boys didn’t stop for any backslapping. They rode full-out, determined not to slow until they’d reached the safety of the village.
They weren’t two miles from the fort, however, when Cisco decided to exercise his will. And it was not his will to go with these boys.
They were at a full run when the buckskin wheeled sharply away. Horn Bull’s son was pulled off his pony as if he’d been low-bridged by a tree limb.
Frog Back and Smiles A Lot tried to give chase, but Cisco kept running, the long lead line trailing behind him. He had true speed, and when the speed gave out, his stamina took over.
The Indian ponies wouldn’t have caught him if they’d been fresh.
Dunbar had just gotten a pot of coffee going and was sitting morosely by his fire when Cisco trotted casually into the flickering light.
The lieutenant was more relieved than he was surprised. Having his horse stolen had made him mad as a hornet. But Cisco had been stolen before, twice to be exact, and like a faithful dog, he had always found a way to come back.
Lieutenant Dunbar gathered in the Comanche lead line, checked his horse for cuts, and, with the sky turning pink in the east, led the little buckskin down the slope for a drink.
While he sat by the stream, Dunbar watched the surface. The river’s little fish were beginning to bite at the hordes of invisible insects lighting on top of the water, and the lieutenant suddenly felt as helpless as a mayfly.
The Indians could have killed him as easily as they had stolen his horse.
The idea of dying bothered him. I could be dead by this afternoon, he thought.
