Philipp Meyer - The Son

We stayed at a distance from the town, dropping gradually into the valley, then the river itself, and then back up into the mountains. A day’s ride from the border was a latifundio that was known to have a thousand horses.

THERE WAS A small village attached to the latifundio and we left the remuda with a half-dozen young Indians to guard the animals. Most were better hands than I was at riding and shooting, but that did not matter, because I had gotten a scalp and they hadn’t.

The rest of us picked the best horses, covered our faces and bodies with red and black and yellow paint, put on silver and brass armbands and bracelets, and tied feathers to the manes of our horses. Toshaway made sure I got a medicine hat with a large brown shield and I spent a long time painting it. I emptied my bowels three times, though the last time it was all water. I kept my eye on Toshaway and N uukaru. Toshaway was laughing and joking with various people, making sure everyone was ready; N uukaru was keeping to himself, and looked serious, and I also saw him go into the bushes and then a second time a few minutes later. I tried to eat some pemmican, but my mouth was too dry. I decided that was fine. If you were hit in the guts you did not want them to be full.

The sun was close to setting when a bell in the hacienda began to ring, probably the supper bell, but the Comanches thought we’d been spotted and then everyone was on their horses, moving toward the village and the ranch. Shields were adjusted. A few riders carried cut-down shotguns or repeating pistols, but most had their bows ready with a half-dozen arrows clenched in the hand that held the bow, the seventh arrow nocked, quivers adjusted so they could get to more arrows when they needed them. Reins were tied short so they would not be in the way. You were expected to steer only with your knees.

We came at them with the sun behind us, making our way quietly through the brush until we were nearly at the edge of the village. Then we kicked the horses into a run. There was a small open area to be crossed and there was whooping and ululating as if we were celebrating a great occasion, white-clad Mexicans fleeing for the chaparral, a general cry of “ Los bárbaros, ” a single puff of gunsmoke from between two houses, another musket pointing from a window. I aimed just to the left of the barrel but the horse was running too fast and I missed. I fumbled away my rifle and took out my bow and we were into the village, a wide main street with white adobe houses on either side; I wondered how many people there were and saw more puffs of gunsmoke but all I heard was the whooping and ululating and I started to think I would not be hurt. Everything was moving slowly. I could see each stone and clod of dirt, arrows falling toward men on rooftops or behind walls, a boy holding an escopeta sprinting down the street in front of us, his hat fell off, his arm went back to reach for it and an arrow stuck into him, then a second arrow hit and then he turned suddenly and dodged between two houses.

Then we were at the end of the village. There was only one street so I turned around and went back down it. An old man stepped out with a pistol; he was pulling a careful bead and I felt the wind as the ball went. Before I could get my bow aimed the horse changed course and ran him over and I could tell by the sound that he would not be getting up. Then I was going by a long adobe wall and there were puffs of clay the whole length and I realized people were shooting at me. Somehow I was at the front, but the arrows were still going past on both sides and then I reached the end of the village again.

A man wearing the black coat of a hacendado was crouched behind a mesquite, calmly letting off a repeater. I shot two arrows but they went rattling off the branches and then another arrow came from behind me and cut through a small opening and the man fell backward. There was a whoopwhoopwhoop and Toshaway shook his bow, then turned away to look for more people. I realized I had not been shooting enough. I stopped to situate my arrows. My shield popped me in the nose; there was a white-shirted man surrounded by a cloud of gunsmoke and I shot a quick arrow. He dropped his musket and took a few drunken steps, then ran into the chaparral with the arrow wagging in front of him. I shot another into his back, which didn’t slow him down either. He disappeared. I noticed I’d been standing still. I kicked the horse and we went back down the street.

There was no longer a charge as much as a general melee. Arrows kept flying past me; people kept falling over; I would look at someone — they would get hit by an arrow — I would look at someone else — they would get hit as well. I was beginning to feel like the hand of God Himself, then remembered my shield and got it up and moving just as it was knocked into my head again. I tried to wipe my eyes and kicked the horse just as the shield was hit a third and fourth time. I was rowing it in huge circles; I crouched and reached the end of the village and charged directly into the chaparral to gather myself up.

A woman with a child appeared in front of me; she was running blind and the horse turned to trample her. I kneed him away, missing her, then made a big circle in the brush and headed back to the village. By now the street was nothing but bodies and dismounted Comanches taking scalps. Most of the riders had gone somewhere else. There was shooting a few hundred yards away, at the main ranch house. A person with a musket came out from behind a wall, looked around, and sprinted for the chaparral. I cut his shirt with an arrow but he kept running and I knew I’d been missing most of my shots. I sat there a minute and nothing happened. I rode toward the shooting.

A dozen Indians had surrounded the house and were shooting arrows and occasionally a rifle toward it. The inhabitants were alive and well as there were regular puffs of smoke coming from the gunports and windows. On a stone patio, two men were lying next to a stub-barreled cannon, a ramrod and barrel of powder turned over next to them.

The main body of Comanches was off rounding up the horses, and I got a strange feeling watching the siege of the house so before I could be recruited I rode off to help gather the animals.

WE RODE ALL night but everyone was in a good mood, a thousand horses stretched out in front of us, enough to get our band back on its feet. I thought about the man I’d shot in the back and stomach and the other man I’d run down with the horse, and the others I had shot at but was not sure if I had hit. I figured it was possible they were all dead. None of them had given me the feeling of the Delaware and I wondered if I would ever have that again. I told myself they were just Mexicans and they would have done the same to me. My father always said the Mexicans had as much fun torturing people as the Indians.

Around midday we were into the foothills, driving the horses up a dry streambed. At the top of the hill, opposite the side we’d climbed, we stopped to collect our thoughts. I rode to find Toshaway and found him standing with Pizon, refilling his waterskin at a stream and cursing the Indians who had driven the horses through the water instead of along the banks.

“Ah,” said Pizon. “The Great Tiehteti.”

“He who charges at the front.”

I started to grin.

“Oh, that was quite beautiful, Tiehteti, you charging through the middle of them like that, missing with every arrow you fired, then meanwhile every single one of them was trying to kill you, and they were missing as well.” He chuckled and shook his head. “It was something to behold.”

“I did hit one of them,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, in the stomach. And in the back. And I killed another one with the horse.”