rode north toward the land of the Kiowa.
The old chief, his grandfather, came out of his tepee to watch him as he dismounted. He waited silently until Max came up to him.
Max looked into the eyes of the old man. "I come in sadness to the tents of my people," he said in Kiowa.
The chief did not speak.
"My father and mother are dead," he continued.
The chief still did not speak.
Max reached to his belt and took off the scalp that hung there. He threw it down in front of the chief. "I have taken the scalp of one of the murderers," he said. "And I come to the tent of my grandfather, the mighty chief, to spend the time of my sorrow."
The chief looked down at the scalp, then up at Max. "We are no longer free to roam the plains," he said. "We live on the land that the White Eyes allow us. Have any of them seen you as you approached?"
"None saw me," Max answered. "I came from the hills behind them."
The chief looked down at the scalp again. It had been a long time since the scalp of an enemy hung from the post before his tepee. His heart swelled with pride. He looked at Max. The White Eyes could imprison the bodies but they could not imprison the spirit. He picked up the scalp and hung it from the post then turned back to Max.
"A tree has many branches," he said slowly. "And when some branches fall or are cut down, other branches must be grown to take their place so their spirits may find where to live."
He took a feather from his headdress and held it toward Max. "There is a maiden whose brave was killed in a fall from his horse two suns ago. She had already taken the marriage stick and now must live alone in a tent by the river until his spirit is replaced in her. Go now and take her."
Max stared at him. "Now?" he asked.
The chief thrust the feather into his hand. "Now," he said, with the knowledge of all his years. "It is the best time, while the spirit of war and vengeance still rages like a torrent in your blood. It is the best time to take a woman."
Max turned and picked up the lead and walked down through the camp with the horses. The Indians watched him silently as he passed by. He walked slowly with his head held high. He reached the bank of the small river and followed it around a bend.
A single tent stood there, out of sight of the rest of the camp. Max walked toward it. He tied the horses to some shrubs and lifted the flap of the tent and walked in.
The tent was empty. He lifted the flap again and looked out. There was no one in sight. He let the flap down. He walked to the back of the tent and sat down on a bed of skins stretched out on the floor.
A moment later the girl came in. Her hair and body were wet from the river and her dress clung to her. Her eyes went wide as she saw him. She stood there poised for flight.
She wasn't much more than a child, Max saw. Fourteen, maybe fifteen at the most. Suddenly he knew why the chief had sent him down here. He picked up the feather and held it toward her. "Don't be afraid," he said gently. "The mighty chief has put us together so that we may drive the devils from each other."
6
ASTRIDE THE WIRY PINTO, MAX CAME DOWN THE RAMP from the railroad car behind the last of the cattle. He waited a moment until the last steer had entered the stockyard and then dropped the gate behind it. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead on his sleeve and looked up at the sun.
It hung almost overhead, white hot, baking into the late spring dust of the yards. The cattle lowed softly as if somehow they, too, knew they had come to the end of the road. The long road that led up from Texas, to a railroad that took them to Kansas City, and their impending doom.
Max put the hat back on his head and squinted down the fence to where the boss sat with the cattle-buyers. He rode down toward them.
Farrar turned as he stopped his horse beside them. "They all in?"
"They all in, Mr. Farrar," Max answered.
"Good," Farrar said. He turned to one of the cattle-buyers.
The old chief, his grandfather, came out of his tepee to watch him as he dismounted. He waited silently until Max came up to him.
Max looked into the eyes of the old man. "I come in sadness to the tents of my people," he said in Kiowa.
The chief did not speak.
"My father and mother are dead," he continued.
The chief still did not speak.
Max reached to his belt and took off the scalp that hung there. He threw it down in front of the chief. "I have taken the scalp of one of the murderers," he said. "And I come to the tent of my grandfather, the mighty chief, to spend the time of my sorrow."
The chief looked down at the scalp, then up at Max. "We are no longer free to roam the plains," he said. "We live on the land that the White Eyes allow us. Have any of them seen you as you approached?"
"None saw me," Max answered. "I came from the hills behind them."
The chief looked down at the scalp again. It had been a long time since the scalp of an enemy hung from the post before his tepee. His heart swelled with pride. He looked at Max. The White Eyes could imprison the bodies but they could not imprison the spirit. He picked up the scalp and hung it from the post then turned back to Max.
"A tree has many branches," he said slowly. "And when some branches fall or are cut down, other branches must be grown to take their place so their spirits may find where to live."
He took a feather from his headdress and held it toward Max. "There is a maiden whose brave was killed in a fall from his horse two suns ago. She had already taken the marriage stick and now must live alone in a tent by the river until his spirit is replaced in her. Go now and take her."
Max stared at him. "Now?" he asked.
The chief thrust the feather into his hand. "Now," he said, with the knowledge of all his years. "It is the best time, while the spirit of war and vengeance still rages like a torrent in your blood. It is the best time to take a woman."
Max turned and picked up the lead and walked down through the camp with the horses. The Indians watched him silently as he passed by. He walked slowly with his head held high. He reached the bank of the small river and followed it around a bend.
A single tent stood there, out of sight of the rest of the camp. Max walked toward it. He tied the horses to some shrubs and lifted the flap of the tent and walked in.
The tent was empty. He lifted the flap again and looked out. There was no one in sight. He let the flap down. He walked to the back of the tent and sat down on a bed of skins stretched out on the floor.
A moment later the girl came in. Her hair and body were wet from the river and her dress clung to her. Her eyes went wide as she saw him. She stood there poised for flight.
She wasn't much more than a child, Max saw. Fourteen, maybe fifteen at the most. Suddenly he knew why the chief had sent him down here. He picked up the feather and held it toward her. "Don't be afraid," he said gently. "The mighty chief has put us together so that we may drive the devils from each other."
6
ASTRIDE THE WIRY PINTO, MAX CAME DOWN THE RAMP from the railroad car behind the last of the cattle. He waited a moment until the last steer had entered the stockyard and then dropped the gate behind it. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead on his sleeve and looked up at the sun.
It hung almost overhead, white hot, baking into the late spring dust of the yards. The cattle lowed softly as if somehow they, too, knew they had come to the end of the road. The long road that led up from Texas, to a railroad that took them to Kansas City, and their impending doom.
Max put the hat back on his head and squinted down the fence to where the boss sat with the cattle-buyers. He rode down toward them.
Farrar turned as he stopped his horse beside them. "They all in?"
"They all in, Mr. Farrar," Max answered.
"Good," Farrar said. He turned to one of the cattle-buyers.
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