Dead Man's Hand by Nancy A. Collins

Author:Nancy A. Collins [Collins, Nancy A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: West (U.S.), Vampires, Western stories, General, Fantasy, Horror tales; American, Horror fiction, Fiction, Short stories
ISBN: 9781588468758
Publisher: Two Wolf Press
Published: 2004-09-14T23:00:00+00:00

chapter three

My decision to abandon the way of the Comanche for the white man's society was not an easy one. Even though, technically, I was one of their number, I had no reason to love or trust whites.

First of all, it was whites who killed my natural family. I'd know that before I learned to walk, since Eight Clouds made a point of telling me, early on, the story of how I came to be his son. Secondly, throughout my years as a member of the Wasp Riders, I had ample occasion to see how treacherous whites could be. They had broken numerous treaties and waged war against the Comanche in a cowardly fashion for years. And third, it was the whites who were responsible for the epidemics of cholera, diphtheria, influenza, measles, smallpox and syphilis that spread through the tribe like brushfire, claiming brave, elder, squaw and papoose alike.

The whites seemed stricken with a craziness the Comanche–and all other Indians were at a loss to comprehend. Their buffalo hunters killed more than they could possibly eat in a lifetime. Their farmers wrapped the land in barbed wire and claimed the dirt below and the sky above as their property. Still, for madmen, they were privy to immense power. The iron horses and the buffalo guns that could kill from a mile away were truly impressive. So, was it not possible they might have knowledge as to how I might better control my wolf-self?

I knew better than to ride up to the nearest settlement and expect to be welcomed with open arms. What with my long dark hair and sun-browned skin, I looked more Indian than white. I was likely to catch a bullet between the eyes before I had a chance to dismount. Besides, my English was pretty bad–in fact, nonexistent. No, if I was going to introduce myself to white society, it was going to have to be through an intermediary of some kind.

A week or more after I had voluntarily banished myself, I came upon a black man traveling alone across the prairie, driving a wagon pulled by oxen. When he saw my pony approaching, he reined his oxen to a halt and pulled out a rifle. He rested it across his knees, watching me cautiously.

As I drew nearer. I recognized him as the man called Buffalo-Face, who traded on occasion with the Wasp Riders, swapping rifles, ammunition and liquor for ponies.

"Good day, Buffalo-Face," I said, speaking in the mixture of Spanish and Comanche dialect that was reserved for dealing with traders.

He squinted at me and spat a stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth. He was a big, powerfully built man with skin that gleamed like polished stone. A mass of dark, nappy wool hung to his shoulders, which was the reason the Comanche had given him his name.

"You Comanche, ain't ya?"

"I am Walking Wolf of the Penateka."

Buffalo-Face's shoulders relaxed. "Walking Wolf? You're Eight Clouds's boy, am I right? What you doin' way the hell out here, son? You out scoutin’ buffalo?"

"I'm looking for whites.

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