Larry McMurtry - Comanche Moon

Perhaps his father would come, Blue Duck hoped.

Sometimes Buffalo Hump rode out just before dawn, on a short hunt. He was better than anyone in camp at surprising young deer at their morning feeding. Often he would arrive back in camp with a doe or a big yearling fawn slung over his horse. Buffalo Hump's young wife, Lark, was good at working deerskins. She had made a soft cloak that Buffalo Hump could throw over his great hump. Lark was comely and plump--Blue Duck thought that Lark was one of the reasons his father had little interest in fighting. He preferred to stay with Lark, letting her feed him, and enjoying the warmth of her young body. Lark had come from the band led by old Slow Tree, who was so afraid of Buffalo Hump that he had let him take the girl for only a few horses, a thing that made Kicking Wolf angry. He himself had bought two wives from old Slow Tree and had even tried to buy Lark before Buffalo Hump saw her. But Slow Tree had never given Kicking Wolf any bargains, when it came to purchasing wives; the contrary old chief had refused absolutely to let Kicking Wolf buy Lark only a month before he let her become the wife of Buffalo Hump.

Blue Duck limped on down and finally reached the floor of the canyon. When he looked up he saw to his astonishment that the Buffalo Horse was still at the canyon rim, high above him. Big Horse Scull was not on him--the horse was just standing there. It was a worrisome thing: the Buffalo Horse might be some kind of witch animal that would cause his death if he were not careful.

Blue Duck hurried as fast as he could, worried about the witch horse high above him.

Probably it was the witch horse that had alerted Gun In The Water, enabling him to put a bullet into Blue Duck without even aiming his gun. The more Blue Duck thought about it, the angrier it made him--the next time he had an opportunity to kill Gun In The Water he meant to come on him while he slept and cut his throat--he vowed never again to embarrass himself by sending an arrow over an enemy's head. There was no question of missing when you drew a knife across a man's throat.

Blue Duck knew he had better get home and explain that a witch had been involved, before his father heard the story from someone else.

Buffalo Hump had a way of knowing what had happened to one of his people before anyone else in the tribe. Old women told him things that they had heard from crows or hawks--things that had happened far from camp, so far that no warrior would have time to return and report. Some old woman might already have heard about the wild arrow from a bird, and told his father, which would not be a good thing, particularly not on a day when he had lost a horse--it was a loss his father would be sure to resent. The whites had a lot of horsemeat already; perhaps they would not even bother to butcher his horse, in which case he could go back later and get the meat and bring it to Lark, who was the only one who could cook for his father now. His other two wives were angry because of Lark and rarely lifted a hand to cook for Buffalo Hump now. Since he liked the plump young woman so much his older wives saw to it that she did all the work. One of the wives, old Heavy Leg, even made Lark go around the outside of the camp and collect the turds that people dropped in their shitting. Heavy Leg told Lark that they might need the turds for fuel, but that was absurd. The Comanches did not burn human turds for fuel, not in a wooded canyon where there were many buffalo chips to be gathered. When Lark protested, the two old wives, Heavy Leg and Hair On The Lip, beat her with an axe handle they had found in a white man's wagon.

Hair On The Lip got her name because she had a mustache, like a white man. Even so, Hair On The Lip had been Buffalo Hump's favorite wife for many years. Even now he sometimes made Lark leave the lodge so he could joke around with Hair On The Lip.

Blue Duck walked halfway across the canyon--he was angry that no one had responded to the shooting and come to see if he was in trouble. Then he saw Slipping Weasel and Last Horse riding toward him. They were just trotting their horses, not in any hurry; even after they came close enough to see that he was limping they only put their horses into an easy lope. Buffalo Hump was not with them, nor were any of the other warriors. Though he was now in sight of the camp, no one was paying much attention. The sun had touched the bottom of the canyon now--p were just standing around looking at it, enjoying the warmth after so many cold days.

"You have a lot of blood on your leg," Slipping Weasel said, when Blue Duck came limping up to them.

"Where did you get all that blood?" Last Horse inquired.

"Are you stupid? It's my blood," Blue Duck told them. "It's my blood and it came from inside me." He regarded Slipping Weasel as one of the most ignorant members of the band. Why was it necessary to ask where he got the blood on him when it was obvious that he was wounded? Slipping Weasel was so dumb that Blue Duck tried to avoid going on raids with him. He made too many mistakes, and was forgetful as well. Once he had even forgotten a captive and the captive had drowned in a flooded creek, trying to run away.

"You have many wounds today--y have been busy," Last Horse said, as if being wounded was a pleasant thing.

The two warriors were not trying to help him, particularly; they had just ridden over out of curiosity, to see what might have occurred. Even when they realized he was wounded they did not become any more helpful. Neither of them offered him a horse to ride to camp, a discourtesy that made him want to pull out his knife and stick it in both of them.

He wanted to, but he held back, afraid of what would happen if he killed them both.

Slipping Weasel had already told him that the old men had talked to Buffalo Hump about sending him out of the tribe. It was because of his Mexican blood, Blue Duck felt sure. Several young men in the tribe had been born of white captives, or brown captives, and the old men didn't like it. The half-breeds were sometimes driven out. The old men might tell his father that it was because of his behaviour, his fighting, that he should be sent away, but Blue Duck didn't believe it. They wanted to be rid of him because he carried his mother's blood. He often thought of leaving the tribe himself, but hadn't, because he was not ready and not equipped. He had only a poor gun, and now he had no horse. When he was ready he meant to leave of his own accord--one morning his father would just discover that he was gone. He would shame the old ones, though, by killing more whites than any of the young men who were pure blood, of the tribe.

"Get off your horse, I need it," Blue Duck said, walking over to Slipping Weasel.

Slipping Weasel was shocked that Blue Duck would be so rude. There was a polite way to inquire about borrowing horses, but Blue Duck had not bothered about the polite way--m and more he did not bother with the polite way, which is why many of the younger warriors did not want to go with him when he wanted to hunt or raid. He was not a great chief, like his father. He could not simply order people to give him horses. It was true that he was wounded and would probably like to ride a horse to camp, but the camp was not far away. Why would he need a horse now, when he had to walk only a little distance further?

Besides, Slipping Weasel and Last Horse had been thinking of going on a deer hunt. If Blue Duck had been badly hurt they would have helped him without question--but he wasn't badly hurt. There was no reason they should waste time when the deer were farther down the canyon, waiting to be killed. Last Horse had seen them just at dusk --they would not have grazed far in one night, especially since they would have to paw at the sleety grass with their hooves before they could eat it.