OMG ANOTHER CHAPTER WUT
I really enjoyed writing this one, because, well, the plot thickens. Bob's intro. Epic?
Let me know what you think.
CHAPTER THREE OF TEH OLD WEST
or:
Across the Llano
Chapter 3: Live and Let Live
"It's not dying I'm talking about, it's living."
Augustus McCrae, Lonesome Dove
When Son of the Bear returned to the camp, there was a flurry of activity by the women to tend to the wounded. Save for the two fallen braves, injuries were minimal. Among the dead were Sage Eater, aptly named for his constant craving for the spice. He seasoned everything with it, or had, before he had been shot and killed by the white men. The other slain was Rich Man, who had a habit of collecting anything remotely valuable-looking from his victims and hoarding it in his tent. Of course there was no real wealth in the trinkets he tucked away, but the rest of the tribe couldn't help but make fun. Both of the murdered were barely seventeen. There were no tears shed for them--Rich Man's mother worked with the mother of Sage Eater to take the bodies to their resting place over the ridge.
Son of the Bear saw that the remaining men were tended to before crossing camp to his tent. His wives were waiting with food. Two men had shot and killed a buffalo at the mouth of the Brazos, and as a result his people were eating well for the first time in weeks.
The warrior had two wives, the most in the band save for Two Feathers, who had three. One of his wives, Sweet Smile, was not nearly as sweet as her name implied. She was a captured Negress that had been with them for nearly two years. Son of the Bear had stolen her from a servant's quarters while her Lord and Lady slept upstairs. Son of the Bear was notoriously skilled at taking captives--he could sneak away a human like the legendary horse thief, Wolf Ears, could sneak away a mount. He was strong and quick, and could crack a woman or child expertly enough on the head to only render them unconscious so that he could carry them off. Entire towns lived in fear of Son of the Bear, for none of his hostages were ever seen again.
Many times, Sweet Smile had attempted to run away. Each time Son of the Bear caught her outside of the camp. Each time he would punish her--put a notch in her ear, or cut the flesh between her fingers or toes--but although he was fierce in battle, he had a tenderness in him for his women. She had gotten better as time went on at staying put, and now she seldom, if ever, ran off. For her, staying with her Comanche husband was better than starving out on the plains, or even living back in Austin with the governor and his wife. Though the lodgings they provided were a sight better than the hard ground, the Lady of the house had a mean streak, and would often beat her if she made a mistake.
Sweet Smile prepared her husband's food. When she was first taken, she had thought many times about poisoning him, but had neither the means nor the true motivation. Killing Son of the Bear would lead to a fate worse than death. Two Feathers, the only man in camp with more wives than Son of the Bear, was notorious for his methods of torture. He didn't often go on raids like the rest of the young braves, but captives were brought to him so he could amuse himself. He sometimes cut men open and forced them to dance until their insides fell out, or he would make a small cut on their belly and pull a bit of their intestines out and offer it to his dog, then sit back and smoke while the children chased the dog around the camp. Sometimes the man would live long enough to watch the entire inside of him pulled out and dragged through the dust. Other times, when he was feeling particularly cruel, he would fill a woman's belly with burning coals and watch her roast. It gave him great pleasure to make the whites suffer at his hand for interfering with their ways--for chasing out the game, for giving them great sickness that no powders or prayer could cure. Their tribe had been thousands strong before the white demons had come though and forced them apart. The old ones told many stories of life before the Comanches had needed to adopt the new ways and fight with guns instead of lances and arrows. With the changes came failure after failure, and Two Feathers found this unacceptable. So he practiced every torture he could think up to strike fear back into the white men.
Sweet Smile huddled with Son of the Bear's other wife, a young Comanche woman called She Who Yawns. The girl had a sweet disposition, and was spoiled by their husband. She treated Sweet Smile well, and had even taught her some Comanche. The black-skinned girl fascinated her, as she had never seen a negro before. The night she had been brought into camp, She Who Yawns thought she was some sort of wild cat dressed in human rags. This thought confused her, but was no deterrent. She cared for her, tending to wounds in her feet she had gotten walking barefoot through the Llano. Though it had taken a long while for Sweet Smile to warm up to her new family, she became immediately trusting of She Who Yawns. Now, they were pressed close together for warmth, serving buffalo stew from a small fire outside their tent. Son of the Bear sat beside his wives, accepting the food in exchange for a hunk of bacon for She Who Yawns (her favorite, and a rarity on the plains) and a silver pocket watch for Sweet Smile. He'd taken both from the Ranger's cargo before he'd burned it. Sweet smile examined the watch--the bitter irony hit her then that this was perhaps the nicest gift she'd ever received, and it was from her wild Indian husband. The sentiment wasn't lost on her, though, and she tucked the pocket watch into her dress. She Who Yawns nudged her then, and she started. She had completely forgotten--she had a message to relay. Of course, She Who Yawns could have done it, but she always encouraged Sweet Smile to speak as much Comanche as possible. Two Feathers had approached them both while their husband was out and told them to inform him that he wished to speak to him upon his return. It was strange enough that Two Feathers wanted to talk to Son of the Bear at all--he said very little, and rarely sought council with anyone. But for him to come to his wives to give them the message was even stranger.
Regardless, Sweet Smile spoke the words that She Who Yawns helped her memorize.
"Two Feathers came for you," She said, tripping a little over her words, "he wants to talk."
Son of the Bear assumed he had misheard, or that Sweet Smile had botched the message. He looked to his other wife, who merely nodded, squeezing Sweet Smile's hand to commend her for a job well done.
"Eat first, then go. It did not seem urgent." She Who Yawns added.
Son of the Bear was troubled. He did as his wife recommended, but ate quickly. What could be on Two Feathers' mind that had roused him from his usual silence to speak to two women? When he had finished his meal, he rose and crossed the camp, anxious to hear whatever it was that was causing Two Feathers' behavior.
Across camp, Two Feathers was sitting on a blanket, idly cutting a turtle out of its shell. The only thing the eccentric young man loved more than torture was turtle meat. Every night he would go to the shores of the Brazos and catch a fresh one, and roast it by the fire for himself. The other men found turtle's meat was too tough, but Two Feathers' teeth cut through it like it was butter.
The turtle was snapping at the man's thumb, but Two Feathers seemed not to notice. As soon as Son of the Bear approached, his keen eyes were on him.
It took a lot to unnerve the brave--he saw death every day, and had since he was a young boy. But in the time he had known Two Feathers, he had never ceased to be troubled by the ice in his eyes. Where everyone in the tribe had the same dark eyes, Two Feathers' alone were a pale, pale blue.
Sitting near him was his son, a boy called Little Tree. Little Tree was born of Two Feathers' first wife, before he had claimed his three current ones. The boy was eight now, and his mother had died trying to escape. She had abandoned the baby and run into the freezing night. She was discovered the next morning, covered in ice. Two Feathers had cut off her head and tossed it in the Red River to make sure her spirit would never find peace, and saw to it that the baby was nursed and cared for by the other mothers in the village. The boy's mother had been a Mexican captive, so the child had dark skin, similar to his Comanche brothers and sisters, but very unlike his father's.
Two Feathers had been born Robert Bryar in a small settlement called Pickle's Gap, near the Mexican border. His parents knew that the country was dangerous, but his mother had been so pregnant that they didn't have time for the doctor to arrive. The town veterinarian as close enough and helped with the birthing, and the child was brought into the world. Four months later, the Comanches raided. His father had been gone, up the trail to Devil's Fork trading cattle, and his mother was killed. The warriors took the baby and left him about a mile outside their camp to die.
The next morning, while out gathering roots, the old medicine woman found the child curled against the still-warm corpse of a coyote. The animal was young, well-fed, and didn't have a mark on it. The woman, sensing black magic, quickly gathered the baby and brought it to the Chief at the time, Crooked Teeth. The Chief ordered that the baby, who was obviously the child of a witch, be abandoned. The youngest brave, Dry Leaves, brought the child a few miles out to kill it. When he didn't promptly return, someone went after him. Dry Leaves was dead, with a single arrow lodged in his throat. The baby was fine, playing with the two feathers that had been strung on the shaft of the arrow.
Killing the witch was clearly bad luck, and so Crooked Teeth had no choice but to take him in. It proved to be a wise choice. Two Feathers was raised as a Comanche, and showed a real aptitude in fighting. From his childhood, he was teased by the other braves for being pale, like the white men they hunted and killed for their scalps. Despite his color, Two Feathers proved to be utterly ruthless, against whites, Mexicans, even neighboring tribes of Kiowa and Apache. He tended his weapons each night and brought back plenty of game, providing his people with everything they needed. The women came to love him, for he was the ultimate provider. Even the chief, Crooked Teeth, treated him as he would his own sons.
Then, when he was fifteen, calamity struck. The settlers had pushed through the plains and brought with them the white man's disease. In a month, the tribe went from more than 200 strong to 59. Among the deceased was Crooked Teeth. The only one who seemed completely unafflicted was Two Feathers. Even the remaining Comanche had all been at least struck down with a fever. In the time of crisis, the band all turned to the strongest member of the tribe, in this case, only a boy.
Since, Two Feathers had watched what was left of his family with a careful eye, and sworn revenge on the white men that had ravaged their land and killed the ones he loved.
Son of the Bear sat with Two Feathers while Little Tree sharpened a knife a few feet away.
"Sweet Smile said you sent for me." He said, watching the squirming turtle between his Chief's hands.
"I did send for you." Two Feathers replied, severing the turtle's head with a deft stroke of a knife he produced from nowhere. He didn't elaborate, but Son of the Bear was in no hurry. He never questioned Two Feathers' trains of thought. He spoke slowly, thought quickly, and killed even quicker.
Two Feathers had gotten the shell opened, and was cutting strips of greenish meat and laying them on the fire.
"I had a vision," Two Feathers finally continued, watching the turtle sizzle and rolling the head between his thumb and forefinger, "Last night. My wives came to me, and I pushed them away. I went for a walk instead."
If Son of the Bear wasn't troubled before, he certainly was now. One thing that was absolutely undeniable about Two Feathers was his appetite for his wives. It was the primary reason he had three, seconded only by their ability to care for his son.
"What happened?" Son of the Bear asked, after a long silence. Two Feathers glanced up.
"I didn't want them."
"In the vision." The brave clarified gently. Two Feathers stared for a moment, then broke into a smile.
"Oh. It is nothing to be alarmed over. But...we need to move again. If the whites are as close as they were today..."
Son of the Bear nodded, reaching to tend the meat over the fire. It sizzled and dripped fat onto the flames, filling the silence as Two Feathers trailed off.
"I agree." The brave said after a long moment, watching his chief, grizzled and fierce, look suddenly tired. It was only momentary, though, and a moment later he was plucking the strips of turtle from the fire, letting them cool on his mat. His eyes swept the camp, going from cluster to cluster, and eventually fell on his son. Little Tree had finished his sharpening, and was now watching his father in turn, the knife still clenched in one little fist.
The chief brushed long, tangled blonde hair over one broad shoulder, and grunted.
"I am tired." He said, glancing back to his tent, where two of his three wives were waiting. "Spread the word to the others. We move at dawn."
Son of the Bear merely nodded, watching the man stand and go into his home. Little Tree watched the proceedings, clearly unaffected.
"He has been acting strange." The boy finally said, breaking the silence and taking up a piece of the abandoned turtle, chewing it thoughtfully.
"Stranger than usual?" Son of the Bear quipped, and Little Tree just laughed.
Let me know what you think.
CHAPTER THREE OF TEH OLD WEST
or:
Across the Llano
Chapter 3: Live and Let Live
"It's not dying I'm talking about, it's living."
Augustus McCrae, Lonesome Dove
When Son of the Bear returned to the camp, there was a flurry of activity by the women to tend to the wounded. Save for the two fallen braves, injuries were minimal. Among the dead were Sage Eater, aptly named for his constant craving for the spice. He seasoned everything with it, or had, before he had been shot and killed by the white men. The other slain was Rich Man, who had a habit of collecting anything remotely valuable-looking from his victims and hoarding it in his tent. Of course there was no real wealth in the trinkets he tucked away, but the rest of the tribe couldn't help but make fun. Both of the murdered were barely seventeen. There were no tears shed for them--Rich Man's mother worked with the mother of Sage Eater to take the bodies to their resting place over the ridge.
Son of the Bear saw that the remaining men were tended to before crossing camp to his tent. His wives were waiting with food. Two men had shot and killed a buffalo at the mouth of the Brazos, and as a result his people were eating well for the first time in weeks.
The warrior had two wives, the most in the band save for Two Feathers, who had three. One of his wives, Sweet Smile, was not nearly as sweet as her name implied. She was a captured Negress that had been with them for nearly two years. Son of the Bear had stolen her from a servant's quarters while her Lord and Lady slept upstairs. Son of the Bear was notoriously skilled at taking captives--he could sneak away a human like the legendary horse thief, Wolf Ears, could sneak away a mount. He was strong and quick, and could crack a woman or child expertly enough on the head to only render them unconscious so that he could carry them off. Entire towns lived in fear of Son of the Bear, for none of his hostages were ever seen again.
Many times, Sweet Smile had attempted to run away. Each time Son of the Bear caught her outside of the camp. Each time he would punish her--put a notch in her ear, or cut the flesh between her fingers or toes--but although he was fierce in battle, he had a tenderness in him for his women. She had gotten better as time went on at staying put, and now she seldom, if ever, ran off. For her, staying with her Comanche husband was better than starving out on the plains, or even living back in Austin with the governor and his wife. Though the lodgings they provided were a sight better than the hard ground, the Lady of the house had a mean streak, and would often beat her if she made a mistake.
Sweet Smile prepared her husband's food. When she was first taken, she had thought many times about poisoning him, but had neither the means nor the true motivation. Killing Son of the Bear would lead to a fate worse than death. Two Feathers, the only man in camp with more wives than Son of the Bear, was notorious for his methods of torture. He didn't often go on raids like the rest of the young braves, but captives were brought to him so he could amuse himself. He sometimes cut men open and forced them to dance until their insides fell out, or he would make a small cut on their belly and pull a bit of their intestines out and offer it to his dog, then sit back and smoke while the children chased the dog around the camp. Sometimes the man would live long enough to watch the entire inside of him pulled out and dragged through the dust. Other times, when he was feeling particularly cruel, he would fill a woman's belly with burning coals and watch her roast. It gave him great pleasure to make the whites suffer at his hand for interfering with their ways--for chasing out the game, for giving them great sickness that no powders or prayer could cure. Their tribe had been thousands strong before the white demons had come though and forced them apart. The old ones told many stories of life before the Comanches had needed to adopt the new ways and fight with guns instead of lances and arrows. With the changes came failure after failure, and Two Feathers found this unacceptable. So he practiced every torture he could think up to strike fear back into the white men.
Sweet Smile huddled with Son of the Bear's other wife, a young Comanche woman called She Who Yawns. The girl had a sweet disposition, and was spoiled by their husband. She treated Sweet Smile well, and had even taught her some Comanche. The black-skinned girl fascinated her, as she had never seen a negro before. The night she had been brought into camp, She Who Yawns thought she was some sort of wild cat dressed in human rags. This thought confused her, but was no deterrent. She cared for her, tending to wounds in her feet she had gotten walking barefoot through the Llano. Though it had taken a long while for Sweet Smile to warm up to her new family, she became immediately trusting of She Who Yawns. Now, they were pressed close together for warmth, serving buffalo stew from a small fire outside their tent. Son of the Bear sat beside his wives, accepting the food in exchange for a hunk of bacon for She Who Yawns (her favorite, and a rarity on the plains) and a silver pocket watch for Sweet Smile. He'd taken both from the Ranger's cargo before he'd burned it. Sweet smile examined the watch--the bitter irony hit her then that this was perhaps the nicest gift she'd ever received, and it was from her wild Indian husband. The sentiment wasn't lost on her, though, and she tucked the pocket watch into her dress. She Who Yawns nudged her then, and she started. She had completely forgotten--she had a message to relay. Of course, She Who Yawns could have done it, but she always encouraged Sweet Smile to speak as much Comanche as possible. Two Feathers had approached them both while their husband was out and told them to inform him that he wished to speak to him upon his return. It was strange enough that Two Feathers wanted to talk to Son of the Bear at all--he said very little, and rarely sought council with anyone. But for him to come to his wives to give them the message was even stranger.
Regardless, Sweet Smile spoke the words that She Who Yawns helped her memorize.
"Two Feathers came for you," She said, tripping a little over her words, "he wants to talk."
Son of the Bear assumed he had misheard, or that Sweet Smile had botched the message. He looked to his other wife, who merely nodded, squeezing Sweet Smile's hand to commend her for a job well done.
"Eat first, then go. It did not seem urgent." She Who Yawns added.
Son of the Bear was troubled. He did as his wife recommended, but ate quickly. What could be on Two Feathers' mind that had roused him from his usual silence to speak to two women? When he had finished his meal, he rose and crossed the camp, anxious to hear whatever it was that was causing Two Feathers' behavior.
Across camp, Two Feathers was sitting on a blanket, idly cutting a turtle out of its shell. The only thing the eccentric young man loved more than torture was turtle meat. Every night he would go to the shores of the Brazos and catch a fresh one, and roast it by the fire for himself. The other men found turtle's meat was too tough, but Two Feathers' teeth cut through it like it was butter.
The turtle was snapping at the man's thumb, but Two Feathers seemed not to notice. As soon as Son of the Bear approached, his keen eyes were on him.
It took a lot to unnerve the brave--he saw death every day, and had since he was a young boy. But in the time he had known Two Feathers, he had never ceased to be troubled by the ice in his eyes. Where everyone in the tribe had the same dark eyes, Two Feathers' alone were a pale, pale blue.
Sitting near him was his son, a boy called Little Tree. Little Tree was born of Two Feathers' first wife, before he had claimed his three current ones. The boy was eight now, and his mother had died trying to escape. She had abandoned the baby and run into the freezing night. She was discovered the next morning, covered in ice. Two Feathers had cut off her head and tossed it in the Red River to make sure her spirit would never find peace, and saw to it that the baby was nursed and cared for by the other mothers in the village. The boy's mother had been a Mexican captive, so the child had dark skin, similar to his Comanche brothers and sisters, but very unlike his father's.
Two Feathers had been born Robert Bryar in a small settlement called Pickle's Gap, near the Mexican border. His parents knew that the country was dangerous, but his mother had been so pregnant that they didn't have time for the doctor to arrive. The town veterinarian as close enough and helped with the birthing, and the child was brought into the world. Four months later, the Comanches raided. His father had been gone, up the trail to Devil's Fork trading cattle, and his mother was killed. The warriors took the baby and left him about a mile outside their camp to die.
The next morning, while out gathering roots, the old medicine woman found the child curled against the still-warm corpse of a coyote. The animal was young, well-fed, and didn't have a mark on it. The woman, sensing black magic, quickly gathered the baby and brought it to the Chief at the time, Crooked Teeth. The Chief ordered that the baby, who was obviously the child of a witch, be abandoned. The youngest brave, Dry Leaves, brought the child a few miles out to kill it. When he didn't promptly return, someone went after him. Dry Leaves was dead, with a single arrow lodged in his throat. The baby was fine, playing with the two feathers that had been strung on the shaft of the arrow.
Killing the witch was clearly bad luck, and so Crooked Teeth had no choice but to take him in. It proved to be a wise choice. Two Feathers was raised as a Comanche, and showed a real aptitude in fighting. From his childhood, he was teased by the other braves for being pale, like the white men they hunted and killed for their scalps. Despite his color, Two Feathers proved to be utterly ruthless, against whites, Mexicans, even neighboring tribes of Kiowa and Apache. He tended his weapons each night and brought back plenty of game, providing his people with everything they needed. The women came to love him, for he was the ultimate provider. Even the chief, Crooked Teeth, treated him as he would his own sons.
Then, when he was fifteen, calamity struck. The settlers had pushed through the plains and brought with them the white man's disease. In a month, the tribe went from more than 200 strong to 59. Among the deceased was Crooked Teeth. The only one who seemed completely unafflicted was Two Feathers. Even the remaining Comanche had all been at least struck down with a fever. In the time of crisis, the band all turned to the strongest member of the tribe, in this case, only a boy.
Since, Two Feathers had watched what was left of his family with a careful eye, and sworn revenge on the white men that had ravaged their land and killed the ones he loved.
Son of the Bear sat with Two Feathers while Little Tree sharpened a knife a few feet away.
"Sweet Smile said you sent for me." He said, watching the squirming turtle between his Chief's hands.
"I did send for you." Two Feathers replied, severing the turtle's head with a deft stroke of a knife he produced from nowhere. He didn't elaborate, but Son of the Bear was in no hurry. He never questioned Two Feathers' trains of thought. He spoke slowly, thought quickly, and killed even quicker.
Two Feathers had gotten the shell opened, and was cutting strips of greenish meat and laying them on the fire.
"I had a vision," Two Feathers finally continued, watching the turtle sizzle and rolling the head between his thumb and forefinger, "Last night. My wives came to me, and I pushed them away. I went for a walk instead."
If Son of the Bear wasn't troubled before, he certainly was now. One thing that was absolutely undeniable about Two Feathers was his appetite for his wives. It was the primary reason he had three, seconded only by their ability to care for his son.
"What happened?" Son of the Bear asked, after a long silence. Two Feathers glanced up.
"I didn't want them."
"In the vision." The brave clarified gently. Two Feathers stared for a moment, then broke into a smile.
"Oh. It is nothing to be alarmed over. But...we need to move again. If the whites are as close as they were today..."
Son of the Bear nodded, reaching to tend the meat over the fire. It sizzled and dripped fat onto the flames, filling the silence as Two Feathers trailed off.
"I agree." The brave said after a long moment, watching his chief, grizzled and fierce, look suddenly tired. It was only momentary, though, and a moment later he was plucking the strips of turtle from the fire, letting them cool on his mat. His eyes swept the camp, going from cluster to cluster, and eventually fell on his son. Little Tree had finished his sharpening, and was now watching his father in turn, the knife still clenched in one little fist.
The chief brushed long, tangled blonde hair over one broad shoulder, and grunted.
"I am tired." He said, glancing back to his tent, where two of his three wives were waiting. "Spread the word to the others. We move at dawn."
Son of the Bear merely nodded, watching the man stand and go into his home. Little Tree watched the proceedings, clearly unaffected.
"He has been acting strange." The boy finally said, breaking the silence and taking up a piece of the abandoned turtle, chewing it thoughtfully.
"Stranger than usual?" Son of the Bear quipped, and Little Tree just laughed.