Sunday's Colt & Other Stories by Randy D. Smith Page B

wasn’t advising McKnight, Maesaw kept to himself.
    Approaching his seventieth year, Jeemy Wilson was of that breed of men known as “borderers.” Of Scotch decent and over six feet tall, he chose to live on the frontier as civilization pushed him west. His shoulder-length white hair and chest-length beard surrounded sharp features and crystal blue eyes. A stern glare from Wilson reminded lesser men of the visage of God in his wrath. He laughed and joked with the younger men, advised the older, and treated the Spaniard as an equal. He carried a sawed-off fusel loaded with tear shot rather than a common long rifle favored by the others. A short-handled, single-bladed ax seemed to live in his right hand. When McKnight’s keelboat could advance no farther up the shallow Arkansas, Wilson suggested burying the heavy goods and going overland using Osage ponies as packhorses.
    â€œIf them are buffs, we could stand to jerk a little meat,” Tom James said. “We should make camp and lay in some supplies before going any farther.”
    â€œOught to have our backs against a wall or at the top of the ridge,” Wilson said. “I’d like a place where we can fort up, if need be.”
    As the trio led the way, the others followed as soon as they had their fill of the brackish river water. The valley was littered with buffalo manure and laced with narrow trails. Salt deposits were so thick that the men could knock off pure chunks with their knives. The herd was skittish and maintained a distance from the brigade.
    Wilson reasoned that Indians were hunting the beasts. He advised the men to take a few, jerk the meat, and move on as soon as possible. By nightfall they had skinned two calves, enjoyed fresh roasts, sweetbreads, kidneys, and liver, and rested comfortably along the shore of the Cimarron.
    Shortly after dawn, Ben Potter shook McKnight awake. Potter’s urgency caused Tom James to jump from his own bedroll.
    â€œComanches are after the horses,” Potter whispered hoarsely.
    â€œHow many?” James asked as he peered across the horizon toward the pony graze.
    â€œHell, I bet there’s a hundred or more,” Wilson said as he joined the others.
    In the distance, a large band of riders could be seen hazing the livestock. Most were dressed only in breechcloths and leggings.
    James primed the pan of his rifle. “If they get those horses, we’re done for.”
    â€œThey may be willing to talk if we can get their attention,” Wilson said. James considered the suggestion, nodded, and ran for his goods. He drew forth a new artillery sword and buckled the scabbard about his waist. He dug out a United States flag and waved the banner from the barrel of his rifle. The Indians broke off from the ponies and approached at full gallop.
    As the braves approached, McKnight spoke calmly. “Put your pieces in order, but keep the muzzles down. We want no fight, if we can avoid it. Tom, you palaver and Maesaw can interpret into Spanish if need be.”
    The Spaniard stepped to James’s side as the warriors approached. The pair advanced to the front of the group, hands held palms forward to signify peace. The Comanche braves encircled the brigade without dismounting.
    One of the leaders was of slim build with a ruined left eye. The other, a heavy shouldered man with a broad mouth, carried a newly decorated Mexican smoothbore musketoon. Neither of the men spoke immediately. Each gave the small group of whites a serious visual inspection before any attempt at communication. Finally, with sharp movements, the smaller man gave a set of signs.
    James turned toward Maesaw and waited for his translation. The Spaniard watched carefully and nodded a reply.
    â€œWhat does he want?” James asked.
    â€œGifts,” Maesaw answered in accented English. “He wants gifts for crossing their hunting lands and taking their buffalo.”
    â€œHow much?” James asked.
    Maesaw