Blue Norther: The Life and Times of Quanah Parker

By Christopher Lloyd King

"Blue Norther" is a fictionalized account of the life of Quanah Parker, a key figure in the history of the American Far West.
Quanah has mixed parentage – Comanche war chief father and white hostage mother. Just as he reaches adulthood, two life-changing events occur. On his return from a hunting trip, he discovers his village burned, the wives, babies, and old people butchered and, most significantly, his mother and baby sister missing. Subsequently, his mortally wounded father makes him promise to reunite the family.
From that moment, Quanah declares war on white people: the settlers, the sharpshooters who butcher the diminishing bison herds, and the U.S. cavalry regiment that protects them. He becomes chief of the Quahada band and attacks the soldiers at every opportunity. In the teeth of a violent winter storm – a 'Blue Norther' – he outwits their commander, Col. Ranald Slidell Mackenzie. He steals the troopers' mounts, forcing them to face the elements on foot. They're lucky to survive.
Mackenzie doesn't make the same mistake twice. Capturing the Quahada ponies on a separate occasion, he orders them to be shot. Faced with imminent starvation, Quanah has no choice but to lead his people to the reservation. He prospers by learning to play the whites at their own game. The Chisholm Trail, along which herds of Texas longhorns are driven to northern markets, runs through Comanche pasturelands. Quanah exacts a tribute from each herd. This quickly makes him and his people wealthy. His affiliation with the cattle barons gives him political power and he's appointed overall Comanche chief. He marries again – and again: seven wives altogether. He establishes the Native American religion, based on the cult of peyote. This and his polygamy bring him into conflict with government officials, but he stubbornly retains his cultural identity. A celebrity in both communities, he takes his white relatives' surname, becoming Quanah Parker. Finally, he fulfils his father's dying wish by relocating his mother's remains to a family grave. Three months later, he's buried alongside her – the last Comanche war chief.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350911206

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Copyright © Christopher Lloyd King, 2023

The moral right of Christopher Lloyd King to be identified as the author of

this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, audio, visual or otherwise, without prior permission in writing of the copyright owner. This copyright work may not be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without similar conditions including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN: 979-8-35091-119-0 paperback

ISBN: 979-8-35091-120-6 ebook

FOREWORD

‘Blue Norther’ describes a weather pattern characteristic of the south-western states of the United States. It’s a cold front that sweeps down from the arctic during the fall, causing a precipitous drop in temperature with accompanying strong winds. The sky turns dark blue.

For the people of the plains who followed the migrating bison herds during the latter half of the nineteenth century, ‘blue norther’ had a different, more deadly, connotation. It described the uniforms of the United States cavalry regiments sent to drive them from their hunting grounds onto parcels of land designated by federal government. Some surrendered meekly and eked out a miserable existence on government handouts. Others remained on the range and fought to maintain a way of life that they and their ancestors had enjoyed for millennia. One of those was Quanah, war chief of the Quahada band of the Comanche.

Of mixed heritage – Comanche father and white captive mother – Quanah used attributes of both cultures to his advantage, first by leading the Quahada in the fight against the ‘yellow leg’ soldiers and then, forced to follow the white man’s path, by negotiating the best possible land deals for his people. His is a story of triumph over adversity.

BLUE NORTHER has its beginnings in a conversation I had with Nocona Burgess, one of Quanah Parker’s great-great-grandsons. I met him after a lecture he’d given on the life of his ancestor. S.G. Gwynne’s Quanah biography EMPIRE OF THE SUMMER SUN had already engaged my interest, and I’d read numerous accounts of Quanah’s life, most notably Bill Neeley’s THE LAST COMANCHE CHIEF. I was intrigued to know why no Comanche writer had explored the subject. Nocona Burgess explained: Ours is an oral tradition; history is passed down by word of mouth. And no one objects to white writers telling your ancestor’s story? I asked. He thought for a moment. Not if they talk to us and listen to what we say.

BLUE NORTHER is my attempt to fill in the gaps in the history. I’ve tried as much as possible to keep to the facts of Quanah’s life such as they’re recorded. There was no need for invention; the facts are dramatic enough. This was a man, born in a tipi on the prairies, who became a warrior feared throughout the American south-west, a wealthy rancher, a spokesman for the Comanche nation, a friend and confidant of the 26th. US President. A man with seven wives by whom he fathered twenty-five children, one of the founding fathers of the Native American Church. A man whose legacy is still celebrated in Texas every year on Quanah Parker Day.

Here I’d like to record my thanks to Michele Rubin, who taught me the wisdom of the axiom ‘writing is re-writing’ ; to the novelist Derek Beaven, who also offered valuable editing advice; and lastly to my wife, Lizzy, whose concept for the front cover perfectly encapsulates the tone of this book. To her I owe the most. Her loving and patient support has been – and always will be – inspirational.

For my children and grandchildren.

Contents

FOREWORD

PART ONE FLY, EAGLE, FLY

PART TWO ALONE

PART THREE STORM BREAKS

PART FOUR BOOTS AND SADDLES

PART FIVE FROM BAD TO WORSE

PART SIX NEW BEGINNINGS

PART SEVEN NEW FRIENDS

PART EIGHT FLIGHT TO THE SUN

PART NINE LOOSE ENDS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHARACTERS and PLACE NAMES

GLOSSARY OF COMANCHE WORDS

BIBLIOGRAPHY and REFERENCES

PART ONE

FLY, EAGLE, FLY

ONE

The boy is perched on the lip of a three-hundred-foot drop to the river. He sits motionless. Eyes closed. Waiting. His father promised it would come. Just didn’t say when.

Cold seeps into his body from the frozen ground. His head pounds. His belly is gripped with sharp pains. The sun has risen three times since his arrival, but he’s seen nothing out of the ordinary. It’ll be when he least expects it, his father said. When he’s doing something else: scratching his head, stretching his legs, or relieving himself. Small chance of that. He has fasted for so long there’s nothing left to void.

It’s vital he stays in a state of surrender; it’s difficult on an empty stomach. Images of food – juicy ribs, thick steaks, slices of liver cut fresh from a slaughtered bison – swim before his eyes. He forces himself to concentrate on his purpose. The eldest son of Tahconneahpeah, chief of the Nokoni, must not return without a story to tell.

He has followed Ahpu’s instructions. Laid out his buffalo skin at the top of the bluff. Lit a fire with sacred cedar boughs. Arranged his medicine bag full of tobacco and an eagle bone flute beside him.

Finding his way was the first test: a three-sleep journey across unfamiliar territory, exposed to attack by wild animals and the enemies of his people. It was the first totally on his own, but he felt no fear, trusting to the survival skills he’d been taught. Ahpu had described the position of the stars and various landmarks. These were his guide. And it was just as well he’d listened. Losing himself on the prairie would have been so easy.

If only he’d stop shivering. But the fire is for ceremonial purposes only and offers little warmth. A meager wisp of smoke spirals into the sky.

A sudden movement explodes from the cliff beneath him. A huge eagle leaves its roost and planes out over the stream, hanging in the still winter air, feeling for an updraft to carry it higher. It hovers, wingtips fluttering as it flexes the powerful muscles in its chest. Its fierce yellow eyes search for prey. Picking him out, it glides in take a closer look. He is unafraid. Quite the reverse, he’s exhilarated: if only he could fly like that. The bird and he are as one, and his heart sings at the ease of its flight, free from the constraints of gravity.

Their communion is suddenly broken as the eagle catches an updraft, taking it up into the sky. He strains to keep it in view until it becomes a speck turning on a fixed point, suspended on a celestial wire.

Time seems to slow. He measures it by the heart-beat pulsing in his ears. He drifts. Nightmarish images swim into his mind: the bony fingers of a skeletal tree poking into a moonlit sky, a giant owl swooping down, talons and beak outstretched, its ghostly shadow gliding over the Nokoni encampment. On a buffalo skin inside one of the tipis, his baby sister gurgles contentedly, unaware of the danger outside. Ripping noises sound inside his head: the owl’s razor-sharp talons tearing through the hide covering, opening a hole big enough for it to fly through. It seizes Toh-tsee-ah, its claws drawing blood as they dig into her flesh. If he doesn’t save her, she’ll die; Pia Mupitsi will carry her off to his lair and pick her flesh from her bones. But he’s powerless. All he can do is watch the giant owl take wing and fly through the hole in the tipi wall. It’s a dream he had when younger – except he was the one the bird always snatched.

A cooling breeze blows across his chest. He opens his eyes. The eagle hovers, its spread wings blocking the sun. The sound of rattling makes him turn. Within striking distance, a diamondback rears up, head raised to attack. The eagle plunges in a steep dive. It skims over him, talons brushing his head. The rattler lunges but the bird is too quick. It seizes it in mid-air and lands, using its sharp claws to pin it to the ground. The snake writhes, coils turning in on themselves. The eagle shifts its grip from body to neck as the snake flails, desperately trying to dislodge it. The rings in its tail rattle ineffectually; the eagle is too strong and too determined. It drives its sharp beak repeatedly into the snake’s head.

Is this real, or is he still dreaming?

The rattler lies still. The eagle gives one last triumphant peck at the bloody head, then hops towards him, head tilted to one side. I will always be beside you it seems to say.

His animal spirit has found him: Kwihnai, the Great Eagle. Feeling a profound sense of peace, he watches the bird walk to the cliff edge and take wing, soaring over the sinuous curves of the river below.

Flight feathers have been torn out. They go into the bag containing his tobacco and pipe, along with rattles from the snake’s tail. Now he has a story to tell.

Clouds gather on the far horizon, and a chilly wind blows from the north. Snow is on the way. Kicking over what remains of the fire, he rolls his belongings into the buffalo robe and ties it over his shoulder. Then heads along the ridgeline towards the Nokoni camp.

The wind blows so strongly that the storm overtakes him as the light begins to fail. Finding shelter becomes a priority. Eventually he finds the steep bank of a frozen river, and hunkers down, covering himself with the buffalo robe. In such conditions, it would be so easy to lose fingers and toes to frostbite.

The wind howls, but he’s protected from the worst. Even so, the cold sinks into his bones. He shivers uncontrollably. His eyelids are heavy. With no food in his belly, fatigue sets in. He fights to stay awake, knowing he will die if he falls sleep. The picture of his baby sister in his mother’s arms is his focus. He must see them again.

At daybreak, the wind drops. Lifting a corner of the buffalo skin, he sees golden light creep across the prairie. His breath plumes in the still air as he shakes the covering of snow from his robe. Flailing his arms to shake blood into his fingertips, he jumps on the spot to release the muscles in his legs. The village is another two sleeps away. If he keeps up a regular pace, he’ll make it, but the snow has changed his memory of the landscape. From the position of the sun, he has a good idea of the direction he must take. The hills outlined on the southern skyline are his first signpost.

The snuffling of a wet nose on his cheek restores a flicker of consciousness. Forcing open an eye, he peers through the frost on his lashes. Not just one dog. The whole village pack is around him, sniffing for signs of life. He throws out an arm and they scatter, howling. It isn’t long before they return, their scavenging instincts overcoming their fears. Summoning the last of his energies, he lifts his head. The dogs circle him, baring their teeth and barking fit to raise the dead. He’s covered in snow: legs, arms and torso enveloped in a thick blanket. The weight is oppressive, but he hasn’t the strength to move. The void swallows him again. The crack of a whip and pained whine of a dog brings him back.

A voice: Is he alive?

Hands scrabble under the snow, warm beneath his buckskin shirt. Another voice: Heart’s beating. Just.

Bring Nadua. Quick.

Hands clear away the snow and a large buffalo skin is thrown over him, fur side up. He drifts away again, thankful to hear familiar voices.

Arms slide under his body and hold him close. Pia sobs, I thought I’d lost you.

It’s an effort to open his eyes. His vision is blurred but he can see light catching the tears on her cheeks.

She carries him to the family lodge. News of his survival has spread. Villagers gather along the path and murmur prayers of thanks to Ta-ahpu for his deliverance.

Setting him in front of the fire, she cuddles him as if he were still a baby, crooning a lullaby. Toh-tsee-ah sleeps in blissful ignorance.

Ahpu is busy with the fire, stoking up the embers and adding more buffalo chips. Where would I find kidneys? he asks.

Where they always are. Use your eyes. Pia shakes her head. Why can you never find what’s staring you in the face? She’s often impatient with him, but, as he’s observed, women see the world differently from men.

What do I use for broth?

Well, kidneys for a start. And water. Put it on to boil.

Ahpu grins. What does he know about cooking? His job is to hunt, not cook. He looks at his son lying in her lap. No lasting damage, then?

Nothing I can see. Still very cold though. Hurry up with that broth.

She’s right: he’s frozen to the marrow. Ahpu dips into the offal bag hanging where it always does, throws a handful of fat kidneys into a pan of water, and puts it on the embers. Then reaches for his personal medicine pouch, removes a handful of sacred herbs – sage, sweet grass, and cedar – and throws it on to the fire, using his hands to waft the smoke towards his son.

"Ta-ahpu guided his steps, but our boy is made of strong stuff. Not many warriors would have survived that storm."

He can’t believe what he’s hearing. Ahpu never gives him credit for anything. Pia strokes his hair. Her touch and the warmth of the fire restores the feeling to his fingers and toes. She whispers, Ready for food?

Determined not to appear weak, he tries to pull himself up.

No rush, his father says. You’re alive and in one piece, that’s the main thing.

A tantalizing smell wafts from the cooking pot, but the lack of saliva makes his tongue feel thick in his mouth.

Ahpu fills a horn beaker from the cooking pot. Your mother thought you were dead. By rights you should have been. Those weather conditions would have killed a lesser man. You should be proud. Not used to praise, he feels uneasy. Ahpu kneels beside him and tips the beaker on to his lips. Slowly, take your time, or you’ll be sick.

It burns his tongue, but he’s so hungry that he gulps it down and holds it out to be refilled.

His younger brother Pee-nah sits on their mother’s other side. He speaks in the whining voice he uses when he isn’t getting his share. Why’s he getting special treatment?

Pia ruffles his hair. He’s been on a long journey and needs to build his strength. He hasn’t eaten for many days.

Ahpu passes over another beaker, then sits back on his heels. When you’re ready, tell us what you saw.

He opens his mouth, but no words come. Instead, he points to his pouch.

Ahpu takes out the eagle feathers and snake rattles. These tell a story. You witnessed a battle?

He nods.

The eagle was victorious?

He nods again.

The rattles tell me the snake is dead. The eagle fought to protect you?

"Yes, Ahpu."

Taking his son’s hands, he looks deeply into his eyes. This was the object of your quest. Now you’re truly fit to bear the name I gave you: Kwihnai. Eagle in name, Eagle in spirit. Like the great bird, you’re noble, fierce, and courageous. With that spirit, you’ll protect the defenseless. You’ll be a great warrior and a great leader. Our people will look to you as they looked to your grandfather and me. He crosses the tipi and unwraps a rawhide bundle. Inside is his grandfather’s war-bow. Ahpu has always forbidden him to touch it because it’s all he has left of his father, therefore incredibly precious. He brings it over and kneels beside him. "When you’re strong enough to string it, this bow will be yours. Pohebits-quasho sent many Tonkawa to their maker with it."

"Tonkawa? Pee-nah asks. Our enemies?"

"We have many enemies, Pee-nah. Some we fight, and some we tolerate. The Tonkawa are different. No one can live in peace with men who eat human flesh."

Pee-nah gulps. They eat men?

When I found your grandfather’s body, one of his legs was missing.

Why would they eat his leg?

"They were jealous of his puha. It was their way of taking possession of it."

Why was he called ‘Iron Shirt’?

He wore a vest made of metal links. Spoils of war from one of his raids below the Great River. It made him invulnerable–

What does ‘invulnerable’ mean?

Ahpu forces himself to be patient. The shirt turned away bullets. It was impossible to kill him while he was wearing the shirt.

Was he wearing it when he was killed?

Stop asking all these questions, Pee-nah, Pia orders. We should let Kwihnai rest.

Refusing to be silenced, Pee-nah turns to Kwihnai. Weren’t you scared when you saw the snake? I would have been. Rattlesnakes can kill, you know.

Ssh, Pee-nah, enough.

It’s the end of the matter. With a sulky grunt Pee-nah moves to the other side of the fire.

Delving in the cooking pot, Ahpu retrieves a large kidney, uses his knife to cut it into small pieces, and pops one into Kwihnai’s mouth. What a privilege. Normally, kidneys are his special treat, one he doesn’t share. Pia catches his eye.

Recognizing her ‘don’t show favoritism’ message, he tosses a bit in the younger boy’s direction. Pee-nah’s face splits in a grin.

TWO

Pia wrestles with the heavy hides covering the tipi. It’s bitterly cold. The winter sun hangs low on the horizon, casting long shadows onto the icy ground. The overnight drop in temperature has frosted the grass around the encampment and the stream is frozen solid.

The village womenfolk are striking camp. The men have already left, making sure the route to the next campsite is clear of danger. The Nokoni always move at this time of year. The bison herds are migrating to new feeding grounds. The ponies also need fresh grazing.

Most of the village is already dismantled, hide covers stowed and lodge poles tied in bundles. Families with more than one wife have an advantage: they’re able to pool their efforts to get the job done. Pia is on her own because Ahpu has chosen not to marry again. It makes her proud, but at times like these she’d be glad of another pair of hands.

She struggles to unravel the rawhide ties; the cold has frozen them solid. Toh-tsee-ah is swaddled in a wolf pelt tied to her back, and Pee-nah is sitting on a buffalo skin, watching. Kwihnai could be helping but he has other things on his mind. He’s some distance away, his grandfather’s bow in his hand, aiming arrows into a target he has set up.

Every other boy his age is with the horse herd, rounding up stray animals in preparation for the journey. The huge number of ponies requires the attention of everyone available. He knows he should be with them, but there’s no way he is going to leave his shooting practice.

Kwihnai! Pia calls. He doesn’t answer. If he ignores her, maybe she’ll stop bothering him. Kwihnai!

Toh-tsee-ah starts to grizzle. Instead of feeding her, Pia strides over and stands between him and the target, so he’s forced to stop firing.

Through gritted teeth he says, I’ll come when I’ve finished my practice.

You’ll come when I tell you.

You can’t make me.

Kwihnai, you know I can’t take down the tipi by myself.

Get one of the women to help. It’s not man’s work.

You count yourself a man?

"Ahpu says I’ll be a warrior soon."

Perhaps, but until then you’ll do as I say.

I am not doing women’s work.

Then you’ll go hungry. Why would I cook for a lazy boy like you? When you’re a man, I’ll give you the respect you deserve.

"You’re not even Numu. You’re a slave, a worthless white woman."

The shock on Pia’s face tells him he’s gone too far. Before he knows it, he’s staggering backwards from slap she gives him, right across the face. This has never happened before, so he has no idea how to react. No Numu parent ever hits a child, whatever the provocation. Pia is equally shocked. They stare at each other, wondering what the next move will be. Physically he dominates her, a head and shoulders taller. If he retaliates, she’ll be badly hurt. Both know this will never happen.

Turning on her heel, she walks back to the tipi. Pee-nah, wanting to curry favor, makes a point of helping her. Kwihnai sees he has no choice, so grits his teeth, unstrings the bow, and collects his arrows. Lays them on the ground beside the tipi and pushes Pee-nah out of the way. Refusing to apologize, he starts picking at the frozen knots.

"Will you tell Ahpu?" he asks when they’ve finished.

What’s to tell?

Pia is as good as her word. When the band is reunited ten sleeps later, she says nothing to his father. Kwihnai is so grateful. What words could have explained why he’d called her a white slave? He has no idea what made him say it, why he became so mad so quickly. It’s been since he got back from the vision quest. He’s wanted to prove something but doesn’t know what.

During the journey from Palo Duro to Mule Creek he was on his best behavior. He didn’t fight with Pee-nah once and even volunteered to take care of Toh-tsee-ah. Once he put his mind to it, it wasn’t so hard. Pia rewarded him with little treats, so made it worthwhile. With three of them to erect the tipi, it didn’t take long.

Now they’re camped in their usual spot, beside a tributary of Mura Hunubi. The Nokoni choose it because of the sandstone cliffs that provide protection from the fierce winds blowing down from the north. In addition, there’s good and plentiful grazing for their ponies. Over the years, it’s become their traditional winter site.

Now that his duties as trail-finder are complete, Ahpu has time on his hands. He fills it by making a war shield. Kwihnai loves watching him work, listening to him explain what he’s doing. He chooses the thickest hides. In battle your shield must provide complete protection, he explains. He constructs a wooden frame and heat shrinks the hide onto it. Then decorates it with the image of a spread eagle. This will tell the world you’re protected by your Eagle spirit. When it’s finished, he props the shield against a rock in the riverbed. Time to test for weaknesses. String your bow. Stand twenty paces away and shoot ten arrows into the shield. Space them over the whole surface. Understand?

To be accepted as a warrior, he’ll have to prove he can use the weapons, so this is a wonderful opportunity to show off his shooting skills. He releases the first arrow, and it smacks straight into the center of the shield.

Ahpu nods with approval. Good. Now the rest.

The others form a pattern across the shield with impeccably equal spacing. Ahpu checks to see how far the arrowheads have penetrated. Digging them out with the point of his knife, he’s pleased to see it’s only the first layer of hide. The shield has passed the test. Fancy shooting, he observes. Been practicing?

The row with Pia is still fresh in his mind. Is that what he’s referring to? Safest not to answer. As Ahpu puts the shield into his hands, he squares his shoulders with pride. Along with his grandfather’s special bow, he has the weapons necessary to go to war.

As they head back to camp, Kwihnai asks the question that’s been on his mind. When will I be accepted as a warrior?

All in good time. First you must prove yourself in the hunt.

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