Free A Tale Out of Luck by Willie Nelson, Mike Blakely Page A

should have been keeping his eyes on the Indian camp.
    “That’s the mount the dead man rode.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I told you I saw the man once at the saloon in town. That claybank was tied at the rail outside. You don’t forget a horse like that.”
    First Sergeant Polk had to agree. That was some piece of claybank horseflesh. But those two mounts Brennan claimed—the sorrel and the bay—were the sorriest-looking animals in the herd. He wondered why a man would even want them back. He saw all this at a glance, as his main concern was the movement of Indians in the camp, and they were all astir.
    The major was still distracted by the big rancher. “There are procedures to follow, so don’t think you can just ride in here and claim your property. You’ll get your stock back in due time.”
    “Due time, hell, Major! They’ve got the claybank! They scalped that poor bastard we found! We should attack before they can get organized.”
    “Nonsense. I’ll question them, and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
    Brennan spat on the ground. “You just made a big mistake, Major. I can tell you don’t know shit about an Indian.”
    Polk continued to analyze the movements in camp. He saw women dragging children and carrying babies to hide behind tepees on the far side of the camp. Several warriors were easing toward the near edge, but none held a weapon in his hand. Indians ducked in and out of the lodges, and it was hard to watch it all at once, but Polk sensed that not all the warriors were coming to the edge of camp to parley. A few, he feared, were watching from the shadows inside those lodges. He groaned under his breath and glanced at Major Quitman, sitting haughtily in his saddle.
    Now the first sergeant saw an aged warrior walking toward the near edge of the camp carrying a stick festooned with a white flag, and the striped and star-spangled banner of the U.S.A. Five warriors came with him. They were strolling to the southeast edge of the camp, luring the soldiers into the line of fire from the lodge openings. The troopers splashed across the ankle-deep waters of Flat Rock Creek.
    “Gutierrez!” the major shouted.
    The translator, Gavilan Gutierrez, spurred ahead. Polk knew his story. An Indian captive as a boy, he spoke the Comanche language well.
    As the soldiers rode right up to the edge of the Comanche camp, Polk got a close look at the chief. He wore a single eagle feather in his hair, deerskin breechcloth, and leggings. He went bare-chested and sported a huge scar right where an army officer in dress uniform would wear his medals. A young warrior trotted up to his side, clearly taking the position of lieutenant. He looked barely twenty. He wore a quiver on his back, but his bow remained in the quiver, unstrung. The old man carried no arms at all. Not even a knife could be seen.
    “Ask him his name,” the major ordered.
    The translation came back from Gutierrez: “Crazy Bear.”
    “Who’s the young man beside him?”
    “His grandson,” Gutierrez said. “He is called the Wolf.”
    Now the Comanche leader held up a folded piece of paper, wrinkled and soiled from travel. The translator took it and handed it to the major, who read it.
    “They have a pass from the reservation authorities. They’re hunting.”
    “Hunting poor white bastards to scalp,” Brennan growled.
    The major handed the folded paper back to the translator, who returned it to the chief. “Ask him where he got those horses. The bay and the sorrel. And the claybank.”
    Gutierrez made the inquiry and listened to the reply. “He says the horses wandered up. He says he doesn’t want them, and you can take them.”
    “Lyin’ horse thief,” Brennan said. “Murderer.”
    “Ask him if this arrow belongs to any of his warriors.”
    The arrow was handed from the major, to the translator, to the chief. The old man looked at it. His eyes widened. He handed it quickly back to Gutierrez. It seemed to Polk that Crazy Bear