The Legend of Bass Reeves Read Online Free Page B

now that every motion, every sound, was familiar. This was new, something hitting metal. It came from the north on the trail. He had a sudden thought that this wasn’t a wild horse trail at all, but one used by ridden horses, and that some men were coming, perhaps Texas Rangers. He knew how rough these men were, especially with Mexicans or slaves, and he moved back into the mesquite. Then, in the same thought, he remembered that all white men rode horses that had been shod.
    These were tracks without horseshoe prints.
    Only Indians rode horses without shoes.
    And the only Indians to come into this country were Comanches. He had never actually seen a Comanche, but he had heard tales of what they did and none were good.
    He moved further back to crouch in the shadows. He held his breath and waited. Whoever it was, he prayed that the horses wouldn’t smell him and alert the riders.
    Minutes crawled by like hours. Bass realized he had been holding his breath and he let it out slowly, took another. Back in the brush he heard no further sound. He was on the edge of thinking he had been wrong when he saw it: a splash of red moving past a small opening in the leaves. Just there, and gone.
    He lowered his head to the ground to a spot where the brush hadn’t grown, and he saw it.
    It was a white Indian pony with a bright red hand about twice life-size painted on its left front shoulder. Sitting on the horse was a Comanche warrior, painted for war with black stripes on his upper body and black and white stripes on his cheeks and around his eyes. He carried a small shield made of buffalo hide with the same red hand painted on it, and he held the shield and a killing lance in one hand and a rope rein tied to the horse’s jaw in the other. Except for leather leggings and a breechclout he was naked, with his shoulders and arms greased to keep flies and mosquitoes away. Across his back was a small quiver with eight or ten arrows and a short bow.
    He stopped in the middle of the little creek and let his horse drink. In spite of the heat it did not take much water. It turned its head and seemed to look directly at Bass. Then it turned away, slobbering water to cool its lips and mouth.
    Bass knew he should be terrified—Comanches were said to eat the hearts of their victims, cutting them out alive—but he could not feel any fear. That would come later.
    Instead there was almost overwhelming awe. He felt like he was looking at some … some wild being that had never been broken, never been tamed.
    Never been owned.
    A wild thing that was and had always been free.
    Free.
    The Comanche turned and looked around carefully, stopping Bass’s heart as his eyes swept over the hiding place. When his head turned, Bass saw he had a long blackbraid down the middle of his back. One perfect eagle feather was tied into the braid.
    He’s an eagle, Bass thought, an eagle flying free.
    Nobody could tell this man whether he could own a horse or not, where he could sleep, what he could eat. Somebody might come along and kill him, or he might kill them.
    But they’d never own him.
    The Comanche raised his hand, signaled forward, then pulled his horse’s head up out of the water and moved out of sight. There was a moment of silence, then more horses and warriors appeared.
    There were eight, all dressed for war with decorations on their horses. They looked as wild and fierce as the leader, and when they had watered their horses and moved on and left Bass sitting back in the brush, when they were gone, Bass felt the first jolt of numbing fear.
    Comanches. A raiding party of Comanches dressed for war, and Bass had heard many tales of what such a war party might, would probably do. They were heading south. Mammy and the homestead were to the northeast, at least seven miles in what should be a safe direction.
    But the raiding party could loop north, and there wasn’t anything to stop them but Mammy, old Flowers and the mister, who couldn’t hit a barn