Philipp Meyer - The Son

“Did you scalp them?”

“No, I kept going.” I couldn’t quite remember why I hadn’t scalped them. “The one had a musket,” I said.

“Oh, a musket.”

“Pizon and I were maybe ten paces behind, but it was as if all the rays of the sun were shining only on you, you were like the prize that every man in that village wanted and they had no eyes for the rest of us.”

“And you were riding so fucking fast.”

“That’s what you said to do.”

“If you are attacking, you don’t ride faster than you can shoot.”

“Don’t worry, we killed them all for you. And Saupitty and Ten Buffalo killed the ones we didn’t see. What a beautiful fucking massacre.”

“How is it possible I missed?” I said.

“I would say that you shoot like a woman,” said Pizon. “But it would not be fair to the women.”

“Tiehteti, if you are charging directly toward someone, it does not matter that you are moving. But if they are off to your side, it matters a lot. If your horse is running, you aim one step behind your target if he is close, so the arrow will be carried into him, but if he is far away you might aim five steps behind, though of course it depends on the angle, and on the wind, and how fast you are moving. When the horse is running, you have to remember the arrow is falling both down and forward. Last night you shot ahead of every target, as if you were aiming directly at them.”

“I was,” I said.

“Fuck it,” said Pizon, “he deserves a scalp anyway. I have never shot so many people in my life who did not even know I was there.” Then he added: “You are fucking brave, Tiehteti. I was very worried for you. And Toshaway is right, you cannot shoot for dogshit.” He saw the look on my face. “At least not from a horse. I have seen you shoot from the ground, and you are okay. But perhaps for the rest of this year, when we return, you will practice only from horseback and only at targets that are to one side of you.”

“And perhaps we will make sure you have a few pistols in the future. The white men all have them now anyway. It is not such a crime to use them.”

“I’ve been trying to ask for one.”

“If I had given you one, where would you be with the bow?” He shook his head. “You are very good with the pistol, we all know that, but there is no point practicing what you are already good at.”

We stood there. I filled my pihpóo with the muddy water. To the north we could see the river and the mountains rising up from it, blue and purple with the distance. Then N uukaru came bounding over the rocks, followed by another young mahimiawapi .

“We are followed. Maybe a hundred men, maybe more.”

We stood looking at him.

“Did you hear me?” he said.

“You are like a little girl, N uukaru.”

“We need to get moving,” he said.

“Where the fuck did a hundred men come from?” said Pizon. “There are not one hundred horses left in this entire province.”

“A hundred, fifty, there are a lot of men. I am not sure how else to explain it.”

“First it’s one hundred. Now it’s fifty. Soon it will be five old men herding goats.”

“Toshaway,” N uukaru said, “bring your spyglass, but you won’t need it.”

He ran back up the hill.

Pizon looked at the boy who’d come down with N uukaru. “Is he just being a woman?”

“I can’t see if it’s men or horses, but there was a lot of dust.” Then he added: “His eye carries farther than mine, though.”

“Probably some asshole driving cattle.”

“They are following our route.”

“It’s a dry riverbed through chaparral. With a spring at the top of the hill. Every animal within five miles is going to use this path.”

“I think they are men, Pizon.”

Pizon dismissed him. “Do not let yourself become like this, Tiehteti. There are many things to worry about, but when you think every bush is hiding something, you soon become tired, and then you will not see the man who really is waiting to kill you.”

He spat into the dirt.

“ Yee, this is making me crazy. When we get to Presidio, it will be time to worry.”

No one said anything.

“You fucking kids.”

Toshaway came back.

“ T uyato?yer u, the young ones are right. When we reach the river, you’ll take the horses and the north trail, the rest of us will make tracks going west.”

Pizon looked at him.

“They are right. It is far and the dust is thick, but they are men, and they are chasing us for sure.”

WHEN WE REACHED the river it was dark and we were barely a few miles ahead of them.

The water was shallow; the summer rains hadn’t yet come. That was lucky and the moon was not up yet, which was also lucky.

Pizon and twenty or so others took the horse herd downriver, directly through the middle of the water. They would ride that way before turning into the Texas mountains. The rest of us rode up and down the banks trampling their tracks, leaving obvious sign pointed upriver and also directly up the opposite bank, any direction except the one they’d taken. Then we headed upriver.

“We’re the bait,” I said.

“If they are stupid they’ll presume we crossed directly and they will enter the rocks on the Texas side and become confused about where we went. If they are smart they will presume we went upriver.”

“What if they go downriver?”

“Let us hope for the sake of our band that they do not do that.”

“So they will follow us.”

“Most likely.”

When we reached a point where the ground was rocky, we climbed out of the water in single file and, after a brief discussion about where to meet, split into three groups heading in different directions. Toshaway and I continued west, along with a few others.

“If they are Mexicans, maybe they do not follow us,” he said.

The moon had finally come up and we could see where we were. Then there were sounds and a dozen riders were coming upriver and then another group came out of the brush and the shooting started and didn’t stop. I took off into the chaparral. When I looked back the only one still mounted was Toshaway; he had another Indian riding double behind him. I stopped in a thicket with my rifle pointed toward a gap, watching as the men approached the opening and squeezing the trigger as they passed. One of them doubled over and I turned and rode straight into the thorns; there was a lot of shooting and bullets cracking branches all around but they couldn’t see me and I didn’t slow down. After a few minutes I couldn’t hear anyone. It was a miracle my eyes had not been torn out by the brush. I continued uphill another half mile or so, then circled and waited.

There were a few shots down toward the river and I stopped to recharge my rifle then rode toward the noise. Then I saw a man crouched in the brush. It was Toshaway. He was naked and his breechcloth was tied around a wound on his leg. All he had was his bow and a handful of arrows; his knife and pistol were gone. He mounted behind me and kicked the horse and we were moving again.

“Are you shot?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then your horse is.”

He was right. Its flank was streaked in blood, which I had mistaken for sweat. “You’re a good horse,” I said.

“Use him up, but do it gently.”

“How’s your leg?”

“It must have missed the artery or I would not be alive.”

We rode for two hours, climbing into the barren mountains, keeping to the drainages to stay hidden. Whatever water had carved them was long gone; the streambeds were as dusty as the flatlands. We stopped at a ridge top. While I was watching our backtrail, Toshaway slashed the needles off a pear pad, split it, and packed it into his wound. I tied the poultice on with his breechcloth. The muscle was badly bruised. Behind us the mountain dropped steeply toward the river; we had not made much distance but we had climbed a lot. I could see riders moving where the moon came off the water and I knew they could see us against the pale rocks.