pinned me to the grass. He and another Indian sat on me and tied my wrists and ankles as quick as my father might have tied a calf. I was dragged a good distance. When I looked over, Martin hadn’t moved. He was sitting there taking things in; I could barely see his face above the flowers. Three Indians had mounted their horses, including Urwat, my brother’s owner. They were riding in circles around him, whooping and hollering. He stood and they slapped him with the flats of their lances, giving him an opening and encouraging him to run, but he stayed where he was, up to his knees in the red-and-yellow flowers, looking small against the sky behind him.
Finally Urwat got tired and, instead of using the flat of his lance, lowered the point and ran it through my brother’s back. My brother stayed on his feet. Toshaway and the other Indians were holding me. Urwat charged again and my brother was knocked down into the flowers.
Then Toshaway got my head down. I knew I ought to be getting up but Toshaway wouldn’t let me, I knew I should get up but I didn’t want to. That is fine, I thought, but now I’ll get up . I strained against Toshaway but he wouldn’t let go.
My brother was standing again. How many times he’d been knocked down and gotten back up I didn’t know. Urwat had discarded his lance and now rode toward him with his ax but my brother didn’t flinch and after he fell the last time the Indians rushed forward and made a circle.
Toshaway later explained that my brother, who had acted like such a coward the entire time, was obviously not a coward at all, but a k u ?tseena, a coyote or trickster, a mystical creature who had been sent to test them. It was very bad medicine to kill him—the coyote was so important that Comanches were not allowed to even scratch one. My brother could not be scalped. Urwat was cursed.
There was a good deal of milling and confusion and three of the Indian kids held me while the adults talked. I was telling myself I would kill Urwat. I looked around for a friendly eye, but the German women wouldn’t look at me.
The shoulder bones of the dead buffalo were cut loose and several of the braves began to dig. When there was a passable grave my brother was wrapped in calico taken from the freight wagon and lowered into the hole. Urwat left his tomahawk, someone else gave a knife; there was buffalo meat left as well. There was discussion about killing a horse, but it was voted down.
Then we rode off. I watched the grave disappear from sight, as if the blanketflower had already grown over, as if the place would not stand for any record of human life, or death; it would continue as my brother had said it would, our tracks disappearing in the first wind.
Chapter Five
J.A. McCullough
I f she were a better person she would not leave her family a dime; a few million, maybe, something to pay for college or if they got sick. She had grown up knowing that if a drought went on another year, or the ticks got worse, or the flies, if any single thing went wrong, the family would not eat. Of course they had oil by then, it was an illusion. But her father had acted as if it were true, and she had believed it, and so it was.
When she was a child, her father often gave her orphaned calves to look after, and, every so often, she would fold the grown ones in with the steers when they were shipped off to Fort Worth. She made enough money off her dogies to make investments in stocks, and that, she told people, is what taught her the value of a dollar. More like the value of a thousand dollars, some reporter once said. He was not entirely masculine. He was from the North.
The Colonel, though he drank whiskey the entire ten years she’d known him, never slept past sunrise. When she was eight, and he ninety-eight, he had led her slowly across a dry pasture, following a track across the caliche she could not see, around clusters of prickly pear and yellow-flowered huisache, following a track she was
Finally Urwat got tired and, instead of using the flat of his lance, lowered the point and ran it through my brother’s back. My brother stayed on his feet. Toshaway and the other Indians were holding me. Urwat charged again and my brother was knocked down into the flowers.
Then Toshaway got my head down. I knew I ought to be getting up but Toshaway wouldn’t let me, I knew I should get up but I didn’t want to. That is fine, I thought, but now I’ll get up . I strained against Toshaway but he wouldn’t let go.
My brother was standing again. How many times he’d been knocked down and gotten back up I didn’t know. Urwat had discarded his lance and now rode toward him with his ax but my brother didn’t flinch and after he fell the last time the Indians rushed forward and made a circle.
Toshaway later explained that my brother, who had acted like such a coward the entire time, was obviously not a coward at all, but a k u ?tseena, a coyote or trickster, a mystical creature who had been sent to test them. It was very bad medicine to kill him—the coyote was so important that Comanches were not allowed to even scratch one. My brother could not be scalped. Urwat was cursed.
There was a good deal of milling and confusion and three of the Indian kids held me while the adults talked. I was telling myself I would kill Urwat. I looked around for a friendly eye, but the German women wouldn’t look at me.
The shoulder bones of the dead buffalo were cut loose and several of the braves began to dig. When there was a passable grave my brother was wrapped in calico taken from the freight wagon and lowered into the hole. Urwat left his tomahawk, someone else gave a knife; there was buffalo meat left as well. There was discussion about killing a horse, but it was voted down.
Then we rode off. I watched the grave disappear from sight, as if the blanketflower had already grown over, as if the place would not stand for any record of human life, or death; it would continue as my brother had said it would, our tracks disappearing in the first wind.
Chapter Five
J.A. McCullough
I f she were a better person she would not leave her family a dime; a few million, maybe, something to pay for college or if they got sick. She had grown up knowing that if a drought went on another year, or the ticks got worse, or the flies, if any single thing went wrong, the family would not eat. Of course they had oil by then, it was an illusion. But her father had acted as if it were true, and she had believed it, and so it was.
When she was a child, her father often gave her orphaned calves to look after, and, every so often, she would fold the grown ones in with the steers when they were shipped off to Fort Worth. She made enough money off her dogies to make investments in stocks, and that, she told people, is what taught her the value of a dollar. More like the value of a thousand dollars, some reporter once said. He was not entirely masculine. He was from the North.
The Colonel, though he drank whiskey the entire ten years she’d known him, never slept past sunrise. When she was eight, and he ninety-eight, he had led her slowly across a dry pasture, following a track across the caliche she could not see, around clusters of prickly pear and yellow-flowered huisache, following a track she was
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