The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista

by Joseph A. Altsheler

He left the patrol behind, and then he saw another on his left, and much nearer to him, two more warriors, who did not occupy any knoll, but who merely walked back and forth on the flat plain. They were between him and the great fire, and he saw them very distinctly, tall men of light copper color, with high cheek-bones and long black hair. Both were armed with rifles, of which the Comanches were beginning to obtain a supply, and their faces in the glow of the firelight seemed very savage and very cruel to Phil. Now he flattened himself out entirely, and moved forward in a slow series of writhings, until he had passed them. There was an icy rim around his heart until he left these two behind, but when they were gone in the darkness his courage leaped up anew.

He now reached the eastern end of the village and crept among the lodges. They were all deserted. Their occupants had gone to witness the ceremony that was now at hand, whatever it might be. Not a woman, not a child was left. Phil stood up straight, and it was an immense relief to him to do so. It was a relief to the spirit as well as the body. He felt like a human being again, and not some creeping animal, a human being who stands upon his two feet, a human being who has a brain with which he thinks before he acts. It was strange, but this mere physical change gave him a further supply of courage and hope, as if he had already achieved his victory.

He passed between two lodges and saw a gleam beyond. It was the surface of the wide but shallow creek, showing through the dusk. The banks were five or six feet high, and there was a broad bed of sand extending on either side of the water.

Phil glanced up the stream, and saw that it flowed very close to the medicine lodge. An idea sprang up at once in his alert brain. Here was his line of approach. He dropped softly down the bank, taking his chance of quicksand, but finding instead that it was fairly firm to the feet. Then, hugging the bank, he advanced with noiseless tread toward the medicine lodge. Chance and his own quick mind served him well. His feet did not sink more than a few inches in the sand, and the bank continued at its uniform height of about six feet. He continued slowly, pausing on occasion to listen, because he could see nothing in the village. But occasional stray beams from the fires, passing over his head, fell upon the creek, lingering there for a moment or two in a red glow. Above him on the bank, but some distance back, the fires seemed to grow, and the monotonous beat of the singing grew louder. Phil knew that he was now very near the medicine lodge, and he paused a little longer than usual, leaning hard against the sandy bank with a sort of involuntary impulse, as if he would press his body into it to escape observation.

He looked up and saw two or three boughs projecting over the bank. Then the medicine lodge was some distance away, perhaps fifteen or twenty yards, and, therefore, the adventure would increase in peril! Another glance at the boughs reassured him. Perhaps there was a little grove between the creek and the medicine lodge, and it would afford him hiding! The largest of the boughs, amply able to support his weight, was not more than three or four feet above the bank, and, climbing cautiously the sandy slope, he grasped it and drew himself up. Then he slid along it until he came to the crotch of the tree, where he crouched, holding his rifle in one hand.

He was right in his surmise about the grove, although it was narrower than he had supposed, not more than seven or eight yards across at the utmost. But the trees were oak, heavy-limbed and heavy-trunked, and they grew close together. Nevertheless, the light from some of the fires showed through them, and at one side loomed the dark mass of the medicine lodge. As nearly as he could see, it was built directly against some of the trees. He crawled from his tree to the one next to it, and then to a third. There he stopped, and a violent fit of shuddering seized him. The trees were occupied already.

On boughs so near that he could touch them rested a platform of poles about eight feet long and four feet wide. The poles were tied tightly together with rawhide thongs, and over them were spread leaves, grass, and small boughs. Upon these couches rested two long figures wrapped tightly in buffalo hide. They were the bodies of the dead. Farther on were other platforms and other bodies. Phil knew what the dark objects were. He had read and heard too much about Indian life to be mistaken, and, despite his power of will over self, he shuddered again and again. He surmised that these might be temporary burial platforms, as they were usually put in isolated places away from the village, but here they were, and now it occurred to him that their presence would be to his advantage. Superstition is strong among the Comanches, and they would not walk under the trees that supported the burial platforms on their boughs.

He advanced from bough to bough until he came directly against the skin walls of the great medicine lodge. There he lay along a strong and horizontal bough with his body pressed close to the wall, and a human eye ten feet away would not have seen him. Just above Phil's head was a place where two of the buffalo hides had not been sewn closely together, and the light from within shone out. He raised his head, widened the place with his knife, and looked down into the medicine lodge.

The boy beheld an extraordinary scene. From the roof of the lodge hung a joss or image, with the profile of a man, rudely carved from a split log. One side of the face was painted white, and the other black. Beneath it was a circular space about twenty feet in diameter, roped off and surrounded by a great crowd of people. Old squaws held aloft torches of pine or other wood that cast a ruddy light over eager and intense faces.

A great medicine dance was about to be held; and now the shaman, or chief medicine man, an old, dark Indian named Okapa, who for the present took precedence over both Black Panther and his visitor, who was the great chief Santana, was preparing to begin. Phil could see Okapa clearly as he stood alone in the center of the cleared circular space, carrying in his hands a short, carved stick, like a baton. It is hard to judge an Indian's age, but Phil Bedford believed that this man must be at least seventy. Nevertheless, despite his deeply lined and seamed face, he was erect and strong. But it was, a cruel face, with thin, compressed lips, a large hooked nose, and jet black eyes that smoldered with dark fire. It was a face to inspire fear, and it was all the more ominous when the light of many torches fell upon it, tinting it a deeper and darker red.