Blue Norther (eBook)

THREE

He tightens his grip on the bridle, winding the horsehair braid around his fist. The pony jibs, reacting to the pressure on her mouth. Leaning over her withers, he calms her by stroking her neck. The position provides some shelter against the squall of ice crystals blowing into his face. Her warmth radiates upwards, but it can’t stop his uncontrollable shivering. He wraps his legs even more tightly around her belly. Buckskin leggings and a thin rawhide shirt are poor protection from the winter storm.

He knows better than to complain. Now that he’s accepted into the company of men, he can’t show any sign of weakness. But how he wishes he was back in the comfort of the tipi, next to the fire, under the cover of his buffalo skin. He needs to concentrate to stop the shaking. Discomfort is merely a test of resolve: mind over matter.

He sets his mind to pleasant thoughts. The day before, the Nokoni elders gave permission for him to join the hunting party, the first of his age group. All Numu boys prepare for this moment, so being singled out is a special honor.

When he told her, Pia merely nodded and continued her work. It felt like a kick in the ribs. He thought she’d be pleased. What he failed to understand was that, for her, it meant he was no longer a child. Soon he’d be painting his face and joining a war party.

Shielding his eyes against the snow flurries, he lifts his head and looks forward. Up ahead the other members of the hunting party are strung out, their lances held low along the line of their horses’ bellies. There are twenty warriors, led from the front by Ahpu scouting the lie of the land. He pauses occasionally to test the direction of the wind. It’s the first tracking lesson he taught Kwihnai. Tasiwóo don’t see or hear very well but have an acute sense of smell. They can detect the presence of hunters from miles away. To ensure any success, it’s imperative to stay downwind.

They ride into the teeth of the gale. The landscape is entirely flat, an endless vista of grama grass, scorched yellow by the winter frosts. In places, it’s so high the horses’ legs disappear into it. His pony labors under the increased gradient. At the top of the incline, Ahpu reins in and waits for the rest to catch up.

They look down on to the prairie below. Hundreds of dark shapes move slowly across the plain – the tasiwóo they’ve been tracking since first light. Ahpu gestures for them to prepare their weapons, the signal the hunt is about to start. Kwihnai’s belly tightens.

The warriors carrying lances adjust their grip. Their weapons are fourteen feet long with razor sharp iron tips; balancing them on a galloping horse takes great skill. The bowmen nock arrows onto their bowstrings and gather more arrows into their fists ready for reloading. Kwihnai unshoulders his grandfather’s bow. It’s difficult enough to string it with both feet on the ground; on horseback, it’s well-nigh impossible. The other warriors watch as he leans to one side of his pony and plants the end of the bow on a nearby rock. Holding the bowstring in one hand, he transfers his weight onto the bow, whereupon the pony decides to transfer her weight onto the other leg. This completely throws him off balance. It’s all he can do to stay on her back. The warriors rock with laughter and he wishes he could die. He tries again, this time successfully. He dreads what his father is thinking. But Ahpu’s attention is on the mule-train making its way towards them: pack animals to carry the butchered meat back to the village. Pee-nah is up front, among the boys leading the mules, a job that’s been his all too recently.

He takes up position beside his father and the whole party rides forward in line abreast. Their eyes are on the tasiwóo, making sure they don’t see them until the last minute, knowing they will stampede the moment they’re detected. As they come off the ridge, they’re at walking pace, but once they reach level ground, Ahpu kicks his pony into a trot. Kwihnai soon forgets the discomfort of the previous two hours.

When they’re a hundred and fifty yards off, Ahpu raises his lance and signals them to fan out in a flanking movement. They move forward at a canter.

Releasing the reins, Kwihnai uses his knees to guide his pony. From now on, he’ll need both hands. She knows what to do from the hours of training they put in together, most importantly to stay clear of tossing horns.

Suddenly, a lone bull catches their scent. Throwing his head back, he bellows. The rest of the herd reacts as one, suddenly panicked into flight. The prairie is overrun with terrified animals, their pounding hooves shaking the ground.

The kills must be made quickly otherwise the meat is spoiled from overheating. So, they kick their ponies into a gallop. Splitting into two sections, they’re soon alongside the herd. The tasiwóo’s habit is to run in a straight line and that makes it easier to spot a target.

A large bull looms ahead – massive head and shoulders covered in thick matted hair. Kwihnai’s mind is clear and focused as his pony carries him to within shooting distance. The bull’s horns buck and weave as he plunges forward. A heart shot is the surest way to bring him down. A single arrow, but that arrow must be accurate. He sets it on the bowstring and, aiming at the bull’s flank, draws it back. It thrums on release. There’s only a split second to register the shaft burying itself in the bull’s chest before his pony pulls away. Nothing will ever compare with the triumph he feels as the bull stumbles and pitches on to his knees, blood spouting from his mouth. He rolls, twitching, on to his side.

Kwihnai shouts, wanting to draw attention to his first kill, but no one hears – they’re all too busy. Besides, his words are swallowed in the thunderous sound of stampeding hooves.

There’s no time to enjoy his success. Ahpu is on the ground and in danger. He miscalculated his speed of approach to a large female. She turned just as he thrust his lance. Instead of reaching her vital organs, the blade struck bone. The energy of his horse’s charge, combined with the bison’s turning force, pitched him from his saddle. Bison charging behind threaten to trample him. Forced to change direction, they break on either side of him.

Only Kwihnai is near enough to help. He has one chance, and it will need every ounce of his strength and horsemanship to succeed. He’s confident; he has practiced the manoeuvre over and over until he can perform it with eyes closed.

On his knees, with the flying hooves of the stampeding bison missing him by a hairsbreadth, Ahpu sees him coming.

Kicking his pony into a gallop, Kwihnai threads his way towards him. With one foot hitched into the horsehair loop wound around his pony’s belly, he leans down low and stretches out a hand.

Ahpu struggles to his feet. A bison cannons into him, spinning him and throwing him off-balance. He throws out an arm to stop himself falling just as Kwihnai draws level. Slowing from the full gallop, he grasps his father’s trailing arm and, using his pony’s momentum and his own strength, hauls him up behind him. It’s the first time he has done it with the full weight of an adult; the effort nearly dislocates his shoulder.

The pony struggles with the added weight on her back but is nimble enough to wheel away from the stampeding buffalo.

When Kwihnai is sure they’re out of danger, he pulls up. Such a close call, but they’re safe. It takes a moment to catch their breath. Ahpu pats his shoulder and slides off the pony’s back, giving an involuntary gasp of pain.

“Injured?” Kwihnai asks.

“My pride.” He shakes his head with regret. “My reactions aren’t as quick as when I was your age. Also, my spear arm is weak.”

After being wounded in a fight with Mescaleros last season, Ahpu hasn’t yet returned to full strength. It’s only recently that he felt fit enough to join hunting or war parties. Even so it’s obvious he isn’t the man he was. He looks out to where stragglers of the herd are still passing. The prairie is covered with dead buffalo. The hunt has been successful. The other members of the party have dismounted and are already busy with their butcher’s knives.

Ahpu gestures to the bull. “Better get on with it.”

Why does his father refuse to give him credit? It’s his first kill. How many boys his age could bring down such a large animal? Surely, he can do more than order him to butcher it. A sign he is pleased perhaps? And where are the thanks for saving his life? A forlorn hope. Ahpu is a man of few words, certainly few words of praise.

Sticking a couple of fingers in his mouth, he whistles. Taabe, his pony, patiently grazing some distance away, pricks up his ears and trots obediently towards them.

“Spirit of the tasiwóo, we thank you for the life of this bull. His flesh will sustain our families in this...