Tarrant moistened his lips before it dragged out of him: “We can’t. We’re two against a hundred or worse. Unless—“ He cast a glance at Peregrino.
The Indian shook his head. “In this the People would not heed me,” he told them, dull-voiced. “I would only lose what standing I have.”
“I mean, can we ransom that family? Comanches often sell prisoners back, I’ve heard. I’ve brought trade goods along, besides what was intended for presents. And Herrera ought to turn his stock over to me if I promise him payment in gold.”
Peregrino grew thoughtful. “Well, maybe.”
“That’s giving those devils the stuff to kill more whites,” Rufus protested.
Bitterness sharpened Peregrine’s tone. “You were telling as how this sort of thing is nothing new on earth.”
“But, but the barbarians in Europe, they were white. Even the Turks— Oh, you don’t mind. You ride with these animals—”
“That’ll do, Rufus,” Tarrant clipped. “Remember why we’ve come. Saving a few who’ll be dead anyway inside a century is not our business. I’ll see if I can, but Peregrino here is our real kinsman. So pipe down.”
His comrade whirled about and stalked off.
Tarrant watched him go. “He’ll get over it,” he said. “Short-tempered and not very bright, but he’s been loyal to me since-before the fall of Rome.”
“Why does he care about ... dayflies?” the medicine man wondered.
Tarrant’s pipe had gone out. He rekindled it and stared into the smoke as it lost itself beneath the sky. “Immortals get influenced by their surroundings, too,” he said. “We’ve mostly lived in the New World these past two hundred years, Rufus and I. First Canada, when it was French, but then we moved to the English colonies. More freedom, more opportunity, if you were English yourself, as of course we claimed to be. Later we were Americans; same thing.
“It affected him more than me. I owned slaves now and then, and shares in a couple of plantations, but didn’t think much about it either way. I’d always taken slavery for granted, and it was a misfortune that could happen to anybody, regardless of race. When the War Between the States ended it and a great deal else, to me that was simply another spin in history’s wheel. As a shipowner in San Francisco I didn’t need slaves.
“But Rufus, he’s a primitive soul. He wants something to cling to—which is what immortals never can have, right? He’s gone through a dozen Christian faiths. Last time he got converted was at a Baptist revival, and. a lot of it still clings to him. Both before and after the war he took seriously what he kept hearing about the white race’s right and duty to lord it over the colored.”
Tarrant chuckled unmerrily. “Besides, he’s been without a woman since we left Santa Fe. It was a terrible disappointment to him when he found on the Staked Plains that Co-manche women don’t free-and-easy receive outsiders like they do, or used to do, farther north. There must be a white woman or two in yonder cabin. He doesn’t imagine he lusts after them himself—oh, he wouldn’t dream of anything except being respectful and gallant and getting adoring looks—but the thought of redskin after redskin on them seems to be more than he can bear.”
“He may have to,” Peregrine said.
“Yes, he may.” Tarrant grimaced. “I must admit I don’t relish it, nor the idea of ransoming them with guns. I’m not quite as case-hardened as ... I must behave.”
“I think nothing will happen for hours.”
“Good. I have to give Quanah my presents, go through any formalities—you’ll advise me, won’t you?—but not right away, hm? Let’s walk on. We’ve a lot of talking to do, you and me. Three thousand years’ worth.”
5
Warriors gathered around. Now they were still, in wildcat dignity, for this was a ceremonial occasion. The westering sun cast gleams over obsidian hair and mahogany skin; on the eastern side it lit flames in eyes.
Between the ranks, before his tipi, Quanah received Tar-rant’s gifts. He made a speech in his father’s language, lengthy and doubtless full of imagery in his fathers’ wise. Standing by the visitor, Peregrino said in English when it was done: “He thanks you, he calls you friend, and tomorrow morning you will pick out of his horses whichever you like best. That is generous for a man on the warpath:”
“I know,” Tarrant said. To Quanah, in Spanish: “My thanks to you, great chief. May I ask a favor, in the name of the friendship you so kindly give us?”
Herrera, in the front row though well back, started, tautened, and squinted. Tarrant hadn’t stopped by him upon returning, but had collected his presents and gone straight here. Word flew quickly about, and when he saw the braves assemble, Herrera came for politeness and wariness.
“You may ask,” said Quanah, impassive.
“I wish to buy free those folks you hold trapped. They are useless to you. Why should you spend more time and men on them? We will take them away with us. In exchange we will pay a good price.”
A stir went through the Comanches, a rustle, a buzz. Those who understood whispered to those who had not. Hands tightened on hafts, here and there on a firearm.
A man near the chief uttered a string of harsh words. He was gaunt, scarred, more deeply lined in the face than was common even for aged Indians. Others near him muttered as if in agreement. Quanah lifted a hand for attention and told Tarrant, “Wahaawmaw says we have our fallen to avenge.”
“They fell, uh, honorably.”
“He means all our fallen, through all the years and lifetimes, deathtimes we have suffered.”
“I didn’t think you people—thought that way.”
“Wahaawmaw was a boy in that camp where the Tejanos took Quanah’s mother,” Peregrino related. “He found cover and escaped, but they shot down his own mother, brother, two little sisters. A while back he lost his wife and a small son; the soldiers were using a howitzer. The same has happened, different places, to many who are here.”
“I’m sorry,” Tarrant said to any who would listen. “But those people yonder had nothing to do with that, and— well, I carry plenty of fine things like those I’ve given your chief. Wouldn’t you rather have them than a few stinking scalps?”
Wahaawmaw claimed the right to speak. He went on for minutes, snarling, hissing, flinging up his hands and crying aloud to heaven. Anger answered in a surf-noise. When he was done and had folded his arms, Peregrino scarcely needed to translate: “He calk this an insult. Shall the Ner-mernuh sell their victory for blankets and booze? They’ll take more loot than they can carry off the Tejanos, and the scalps as well.”
He had warned Tarrant to expect this kind of outcome. Therefore Tarrant looked straight at Quanah and said, “I can make a better offer. We have rifles with us, boxes full of cartridges, things you need as you need horses if you are to wage war. How much, for those poor lives?”
Herrera took a step forward. “No, wait,” he called.
Quanah forestalled him. “Are these in your baggage? If so, good. If not, you are too late. Your companion has already agreed to trade his for cattle.”
Tarrant stood moveless. Wahaawmaw, who must have gotten the gist, crowed at him. “I could have told you,” Herrera said through the rising crowd-noise.
Quanah brought that down while Peregrino breathed in Tarrant’s ear, “I will see whether I can talk them into changing the deal. Keep your hopes on a tight rein, though.”
He launched into oratory. His fellows responded likewise. For the most part they spoke soberly. The effort always was to reach a consensus. They had no government. Civil chiefs were little more than judges, mediators, and even war chiefs only commanded in battle. Quanah waited out the debate. Toward the end, Herrera had something to say. Soon after that, Quanah pronounced what he took to be the verdict, and assent passed among his followers like an ebb-tide wave. The sun stood low. Wahaawmaw cast Tarrant a triumphant glare.
Sadness dulled Peregrino’s English. “You have guessed, no? It did not work. They have not gotten much blood yet, and are thirsty for it. Wahaawmaw claimed it would be bad luck to give quarter, and quite a few were
