They sat in a circle in the shade of a tepee eighteen feet across, three white men and seven war chiefs around a charred spot that would have been a council fire if a fire had been tolerable that day. The scraped buffalo hide of the tepee had been rolled up for a couple of feet, and the hot wind crept under, sometimes raising miniature dust devils on the hard dirt floor.
Bluebonnet, the elusive ghost they had followed for so long, sat opposite the entrance flap. Mart had long since stopped trying to believe there was any Comanche named Bluebonnet, or the Flower, or what ever his damned name meant in words. He judged Bluebonnet to be a myth, the work of an all-Indian conspiracy. Every savage in creation had probably heard of the two searchers by this time, and stood ready to join in the sport of sending them hither and yon in chase of a chief who did not exist. Yet there he was; and on the outside of the tepee, large as a shield, the oft-described, neverseen symbol of the Flower was drawn in faded antelope blood.
An oddly shimmering light, a reflection from the sun-blasted surface of the earth outside, played over the old chief’s face. It was the broad, flat face common to one type of Comanche, round and yellow as a moon. Age was crinkling its surface in fine-lined patterns, into which the opaque eyes were set flush, without hollows.
The other six war chiefs weren’t needed here. Bluebonnet had them as a courtesy—and to reassure his village that he wasn’t making foolish trades behind the backs of his people. It wasn’t much of a village. It numbered only fourteen lodges, able to turn out perhaps thirty or forty warriors by counting all boys over twelve. But it was what he had. His pride and his special notion of his honor were still very great, far though he was on his road to oblivion.
Jaime Rosas had four vaqueros with him, but he hadn’t brought them into council. They were tall Indian-looking men, good prairie Comancheros, but he owed them no courtesies. The vaqueros had pitched a shade-fly of their own a little way off. Three of them slept most of the time, but one was always awake, day or night, what ever the time might be. Whenever several were awake at once they were to be heard laughing a good deal, or else singing a sad long song that might last a couple of hours; then all but one would go back to sleep again.
What was going on in the tepee was in the nature of a horse trade. The evening of their arrival had been devoted to a meager feast without dancing, the atmosphere considerably dampened by the fact that Rosas had brought no rum. The council began the next morning. It was a slow thing, with long stillnesses between irrelevant remarks conveyed in sign language. One thing about it, no one was likely to go off half cocked in a session like that. From time to time the pipe, furnished by Bluebonnet, was filled with a pinch of tobacco, furnished by Rosas, and passed from hand to hand, as a sort of punctuation.
They were in that tepee three days, the councils running from forenoon to sundown. Even a cowboy’s back can get busted, sitting cross-legged as long as that. Jaime Rosas did all the talking done on the white men’s side. This old man’s face was weathered much darker than Bluebonnet’s; his dirty gray mustache looked whiter than it was against that skin. His eyes had brown veins in the whites and red-rimmed lids. All day long he chewed slowly on a grass stem with teeth worn to brown stubs; by night he would have a foot-long stem eaten down to an inch or two. He could sit quiet as long as Bluebonnet could, and maybe a little longer; and when he unlimbered his sign language it ran as smoothly as Bluebonnet’s, though this chief prided himself on the grace of his sign talk. The unpunctuated flow of compound signs made the conversation all but impossible to follow.
Rosas’ hands might say, “Horse-dig-hole-slow-buffalo-chase-catch-no-enemy-run-chase-catch-nosad.” Mart read that to mean, “The horse is worthless—too slow for hunting or for war; it’s too bad.”
And Bluebonnet’s answer, in signs of smooth speed and great delicacy: “Stiff-neck-beat-enemy-far-run-still-neck-horse-ride-leave-tepee-warriors-pile-up.” They had him there, Mart admitted to himself. He believed Bluebonnet had said, “When a chief has run his enemies out of the country, he wants a horse he can ride with pride, like to a council.” But he didn’t know. Here came the pipe again.
“I’ll never get no place in this dang country,” he said to Amos. “It’s a good thing we’ll soon be heading home.”
“Shut up.” It was the first remark Amos had made that day.
Toward sundown of the first day Bluebonnet admitted he had a young white girl, blonde and blue-eyed, in his lodge.
“May not be the one,” Amos said in Spanish.
“Who knows?” Rosas answered. “Man is the hands of God.”
Around noon of the second day, Rosas presented Bluebonnet with the horse they had talked about most of the first day. It was a show-off palomino, with a stud-horse neck and ripples in its silver mane and tail. About what the old dons would have called a palfrey once. Mart wouldn’t have wanted it. But the saddle on it, sheltered under a tied-down canvas until the moment of presentation, was heavily crusted with silver, and probably worth two hundred dollars. Rosas gave the old chief horse and rig upon condition that no present would be accepted in return. Bluebonnet turned wary for a while after that, as if the gift might have done more harm than good; but his eyes showed a gleam toward the end of the day, for what they talked about all afternoon was rifles.
Sundown was near on the third day when they came to the end at last. The abruptness of the finish caught Mart off guard. Rosas and Bluebonnet had been going through an interminable discussion of percussion caps, as near as Mart dould make out. He had given up trying to follow it, and had let his eyes lose focus in the glow of the leveling sun upon the dust. He took a brief puff as the pipe passed him again, and was aware that one of the warriors got up and went out.
Amos said, “He’s sent for her, Mart.”
The desert air seemed to press inward upon the tepee with an unbelievable weight. His head swam, and he could not recognize a single familiar symbol among the next posturings of Bluebonnet’s hands.
“He says she’s well and strong,” Amos told him. Mart returned his eyes to Bluebonnet’s hands. His head cleared, and he saw plainly the next thing the hands said. He turned to Amos in appeal, unwilling to believe he had properly understood.
“The girl is his wife,” Amos interpreted.
“It doesn’t matter.” His mouth was so dry that the thick words were not understandable at all. Mart cleared his throat, and tried to spit, but could not. “It doesn’t matter,” he said again.
The warrior who had left the lodge now returned. As he entered, he spoke a Comanche phrase over his shoulder, and a young woman appeared. Her form was not that of a little girl; it hardly could have been after the lost years. This was a woman, thin, and not very tall, but grown. Her face and the color of her hair were hidden by a shawl that must once have been red, but now was dulled by the perpetually blowing dust.
His eyes dropped. She wore heel-fringed moccasins, a prerogative of warriors, permitted to squaws only as a high honor. But her feet were narrow and high-arched, unlike the short, splayed feet of Comanches. The ankles were tanned, and speckles of the everlasting dust clung to them, too, as if they were sprinkled with cinnamon; yet he could see the blue veins under the thin skin. She followed the warrior into the lodge with a step as light and tense as that of a stalking wolf. He realized with a sinking of the heart that the girl was afraid—not of the Flower, or his warriors, but of her own people.
Bluebonnet said in the Comanche tongue, “Come stand beside me.”
The young woman obeyed. Beside Bluebonnet she turned reluctantly toward the council circle, still clutching the shawl that hid her face so that nothing was visible but the whitened knuckles of one hand. On one side of Mart, Amos sat, an immovable lump. On his other side, Rosas had thrown down his grass stem. His eyes were slitted, but his glance flickered back and forth between the girl and Amos’ face, while he moved no other muscle. Over and over, white girls captured as children and raised by the Comanches have been ashamed to look white men in the face.
“Show them your head,” Bluebonnet said in Comanche, Mart thought; though perhaps he had said “hair” instead of “head.”
The white girl’s head bowed lower, and she uncovered the top of it, to let them see the color of her hair. It was cropped short in the manner of the Comanches, among whom only the men wore long hair, but it was blonde. Not a bright blonde; a mousy shade. But blonde.
“Show your face,” came Bluebonnet’s Comanche words, and the girl let the shawl fall, though her face remained averted. The old chief spoke sharply at last. “Hold up your head! Obey!
The girl’s head raised. For a full minute the silence held while Mart stared, praying, trying to persuade himself of—what? The tanned but once white face was broad and flat, the forehead low, the nose shapeless, the mouth pinched yet loose. The eyes were green, all right, but small and set close together; they darted like an animal’s, craving escape. Mart’s mind moved again. Stare an hour, he told himself. Stare a year. You’ll never get any different answer. Nor find room for any possible mistake.
This girl was not Debbie.
Mart got up, and blundered out into the reddening horizontal rays of the sunset. Behind him he heard Amos say harshly, “You speak English?” The girl did not answer. Mart never asked Amos what else was said. He walked away from the tepee of the Flower, out of the village, a long way out onto the thin-grassed flats. Finally he just stood, alone in the twilight.