Benteen had just left Spanish on the point to ride ahead when he heard the scream come from the noon camp. Dragging the rifle from its scabbard, he reined his fresh mount toward the distant wagons and buried his spurs in its belly. It had been Lorna who screamed, although he didn’t know how he knew that.
Horses were running behind him. Benteen took one quick look to verify it was Spanish and Shorty Niles from the flank position, coming to support him, as had been preplanned if there was trouble. There weren’t two better men if it turned into a fight.
His suspicions were confirmed when he saw a half-dozen bucks straddling skinny ponies between the herd and the wagons. They all had rifles, two of them brand-new repeating rifles, Army issue. Benteen slowed his horse as he neared them, feeling their stony eyes watching him. He rode past them toward the noon camp, not knowing how many Indians were there, and trapped between the two.
That initial scream of terror seemed to shock Lorna to her senses. The savage had made no threatening move toward her. She was frozen beside Mary and staring at the first real “wild” Indian she’d ever seen. She saw he was old, his scraggly hair nearly gray. He was skinny and leathered, not quite as alarming as she had thought. Lorna dragged her gaze away from him to look more and saw two on horseback, holding the string to a third horse.
The old Indian started talking. Lorna couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but he seemed to be making a very eloquent speech, judging by the graceful gesturing of his hands. She half-turned her head toward the cook.
“Do you understand what he’s saying, Mr. Rusty?” she asked.
“It’s just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo to me,” he admitted.
The Indian stopped talking and gestured to his mouth. “I think he wants something to eat,” Mary said.
“Are there any beans left?” Lorna asked.
“Yep,” Rusty answered.
“Hand me a plate, Mary.” Lorna’s hand was shaking when she took it. Smiling widely at the Indian, she held it out to Rusty. “Put some beans on it—and any biscuits you have.” She glanced at the other two Indians on their ponies. “Fix two more plates, Mary.”
She made the same gesture of her hand to her mouth that the old Indian had made and offered the plate to him, stretching her arm to the limit of her reach. He took it and began shoveling the beans into his mouth with his fingers.
“I don’t remember anybody takin’ such a likin’ to those Pecos strawberries,” Rusty commented, and scraped the last of the beans onto a plate.
Mary set the two plates on the edge of the worktable and motioned for the other two Indians to come eat. Then she and Lorna backed away to stand closer to Rusty as the two vaulted from their horses and rushed toward the chuck wagon, setting their rifles on the ground.
“They must be starving.” Lorna frowned at the way they crammed the beans into their mouths.
It saddened Lorna to watch the old Indian lick the tin plate to get the last of the beans. He held out the plate and gestured again to his mouth, wanting more.
Rusty made an empty motion with his hands. “No more. All gone.” In an aside, he murmured to the women, “I hope they don’t ransack the wagon, or we won’t have no more.”
Lorna realized that the situation was still precarious. Then she heard the pounding of horses’ hooves and looked around to see Benteen riding up, followed by the Mexican and Shorty.
Peeling out of the saddle before the horse came to a full stop, Benteen made a quick assessment of the scene—the empty plates and the three Indians turning to face him. It was going to be up to Shorty to keep his eye on the other six between the camp and the herd. He kept the rifle gripped in one hand at his side.
“They seem to be hungry, Benteen,” Rusty said.
Spanish came up beside him, all quiet and alert. “What do they look like to you?” Benteen asked. “Kiowa? Osage? Do you speak their lingo?” Benteen walked slowly forward, all his muscles coiled and ready. Spanish followed a half-step behind.
“No Kiowa. A little Cheyenne. A little Comanche. Maybe they know Spanish,” he suggested.
“Try it.”
Spanish greeted the old Indian, the obvious spokesman for the band, and received an answer. He translated it to Benteen. “The old one is Spotted Elk. He says you are trespassing on his land.” There was a pause as the Indian spoke again and Spanish replied. The Indian said something else. This time Benteen recognized the word “wohaw,” which was what the Indians called the Longhorn cattle. “He says”—Spanish paused—“you must pay him one hundred beefs or you cannot cross his land.”
“Tell him the price is too high.” Benteen had bargained with Indians before. “Tell him I will pay him one wohaw for a toll price to pass through his land.”
There was a lengthy haggling exchange between Spanish and the Indian while they tried to agree on terms. Spanish glanced at Benteen. “H
e says he will settle for twenty beefs—no less.”
“Rusty, what have you got in the wagon? Any geegaws?” Benteen asked, not taking his eyes from the gray-headed Indian. “Any supplies you can spare?”
“Got some red bandannas. Those red devils ought to go for them.” Rusty walked to the front of the wagon and pawed through the contents until he found what he was looking for.
“Lay them on the ground,” Benteen advised, then said to Spanish, “Tell him we will give him five steers, those bandannas, and some tobacco. And tell him”—he reached in his shirt pocket and took out his tally book and pencil—“there’s a big herd a day’s drive behind us. They will pay him twenty steers if he gives them this paper.”