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“Let us … let’s go tell our war chief his plan has worked,” Tall One eventually said, turning away from watching the soldier column, back to the smirking faces of the others.

“For all their looking, those stupid Tonkawa haven’t come up with a feather, not one Kwahadi pony, much less a single lodge,” Tortoise Shell said. “We give them tracks to follow, to follow clear to the end of yesterday! As for what they will think, let them think we have disappeared into the air.”

“Come,” Standing said. “We’ll ride back to the canyon, where the earth can swallow us whole!”

Dives Backward laughed, his head thrown back. “To the canyon, where the white man’s trackers will never find us!”

37

Late in the Moon When All Things Ripen 1874

THIS GREAT CREVASSE in the austere tabletop prairie of the Llano Estacado was nothing less than one of the wonders of the Grandfather’s hand. Old men attempted to explain how the canyon had grown so deep, yet remained so fertile, lush with many varieties of trees and plant life, along with the rich grasses that fed their great pony herd.

“Grandfather dragged his fingernail along the face of the ground,” said the old ones. “He carved this place of safety out for The People. Here: away from the eyes of the Tonkawa, away from the guns of the pony soldiers.”

That morning Tall One lay wrapped in the furry warmth of his buffalo robe, listening to the silence in the camp. Above him the smoke hole of Bridge’s lodge showed that sunrise was not long in coming. Here he lay a thousand feet below the surface of the prairie, where already the sun would be warming the earth. But this far down the shadows hung deep, the cold persisted, and a young man’s thoughts turned on autumn.

It was a time he remembered in some visceral way, more than any clear and distinct memories. More some beads of recollections turning on sensations and smells, or the feel of the cool air against his skin as he pushed aside the buffalo robe and pulled on his shirt, breechclout, and leggings. When his moccasins were tied, Tall One glanced at Bridge, saw that the man’s eyes were open, smiling at his adopted son.

With a smile of his own for the aging warrior, Tall One turned and ducked from the lodge as silent as a sliver of night itself.

He drank deep of the morning coolness, sensing its tang deep in his lungs. It was there the memories resided. Not so much his lungs, but deep, deeper still within him where his blood coursed and his heart pounded in anticipation of this autumn morning.

What beauty this place held for those who came here season after season, he thought. Many times before the Kwahadi had traveled to this canyon—what the Comanche called the “Place of the Chinaberry Trees”—a sanctuary of safety from the soldiers, a place of shelter from the battering of winter blizzards. This season the Shahiyena of Stone Calf, the Kiowa of Lone Wolf and Mamanti and Poor Buffalo, had come to join them, off the reservation and away from the many soldier columns rumored to be out and moving this season before the coming of winter. Their camps lay upstream where their herds grazed. This village of the Kwahadi was the last of the five circles.

Above him the narrow walls rose abruptly toward the prairie beyond, where the rose-tinted gold of dawn’s light illuminated a narrow strip of deep azure sky strung raggedly with dispersing clouds, there between the reds and ochers, pinks and buff-creams that striated the canyon in brilliant layers. Here at the bottom lay the lush greens in many hues: stands of cedar and cottonwood, the mesquite and willow that all drank their fill from the Prairie Dog Town Fork of the Red River.

The prospect of a day filled with sun excited Tall One. There had been too many long, endless days of rain and mud, of numbing cold and chill winds as they lured the soldiers away, feinted, attacked, then lured the soldiers some more. The thought of having the sun caress his skin made the young man feel more alive than he had in a long time.

Overhead the world must surely be alive already. Down here the day still awaited its awakening. Only the most industrious would be up, he thought, his nostrils pricked with the pungent, earthy fragrance of cedar smoke. In among the deep green and the bright yellows of the changing cottonwood leaves, wisps of gray hung in tattered streamers. The smoke reminded him of breakfast, and that in turn caused his stomach to growl.

The rumble sent from deep within him reminded Tall One of cold autumn mornings like this one, rising in the darkness with the others, quickly pulling on his clothing as he had done, his nose filled with the smells of a mother’s labors over her stove and skillets. Sweet wood smoke and slices of sugar-cured ham. Hominy at the boil and the coffeepot steaming. He had learned to drink coffee early as a child. A good warmth to carry in one’s belly on those days the whole family tramped off to the fields before sunrise, together.