Pale Horse, Robert L. Ross [beach read book .TXT] 📗

doorway. Seeing his dear friend rise to his feet as he walked towards him, he spoke up and exclaimed,
“Colt Mathews as I live and breathe”! “How are you Colt”?
“I'm fine Horse, and damn glad to see you,” answered Mathews, as he reached out and shook his friends hand.
“What on earth brings you to the fair town of Rifle Stock,”? he asked, still very surprised to see him standing there.
He went on to explain his story, about the telegram he had received just days before, and how he immediately had traveled to Ben's to see how he could help them, and how Ben had already explained everything that had happened. Colt told him that he appreciated that he had come as soon as he got the telegram, and that even though he and John had resolved the situation, there were times when it sure would have been nice to have him there to “even the odds a bit.” They both passed the time like old friends do, each drinking more than their fair share, and as the night drew to a close, the two said their goodbyes, and Pale Horse promised to “Stop back by when he came back through on his way to bring his sister, Winter Crow out to Ben's place to spend the summer.”
The sounds of the town awakened crept through the hotel window and awoke him as he begin to rise and get a start on the journey ahead. The excitement within him could hardly be contained, knowing it would be just days till he held once more his mother, father, and darling sister, Winter Crow.
Walking out of the hotel and across the street to get some breakfast at the local eatery, he seemed purposely bumped into by a fellow who, although the hour be early, was quite inebriated and had a foulness of breath and attitude to accompany his nasty demeanor.
“Excuse you Chief,” muttered the drunken fool as he staggered by. Pale Horse wasn't in the mood for such foolishness, and chose rather to ignore the scoundrel and continue on with the path previously chosen. When the lout saw that the Indian paid him no mind, he turned abruptly and lunged at him, thinking that he must be a coward, or afraid of him because he chose to ignore, rather than confront him. Sensing that something like this would probably take place, he watched the morning shadow that was cast ahead of him of the drunkard behind, and just as quickly, ducked the man's blows, flipped him forward over his shoulder, where he landed on his back, facing up into the impatient eyes of Pale Horse, who was now holding his bowie-knife precariously at the mans throat.
“Go sleep it off friend, I have more important things to do.” Sheathing the knife, he stepped over the buffoon and continued about his way. The bounty hunter walked into the diner, and sat down for a cup of hot coffee to start his day. As always, anytime he came into town, the locals couldn't seem to get enough of staring at him, and this time was no different. The difference in this time though, everybody throughout the place was talking about the way he held a knife to Tommy Youngblood's throat after flipping him onto his back, no doubt just witnessing the spectacle that had taken place outside the giant plate-glass window that was the front wall of the establishment.
After finishing his breakfast, and downing another coffee bean delight, he took the 4 biscuits previously ordered and fed them to Spirit before climbing atop him to resume his journey into the Nations. It was a beautiful day to be riding, the sky was the lightest shade of blue, with billowy puffs of white clouds dotting the sky, and a gentle southerly breeze blowing across the prairie as he crossed the Red River and into Oklahoma. The red sands looked surreal as far as the eye could see as the river ran swift but shallow beneath the feet of Spirit. He crossed it slowly and with caution, as not to lose his footing on the bed of clay bottomed sand and bedrock.


A SON RETURNS


Not far into the Oklahoma Territory, he noticed on the horizon, perched upon the bluffs on horseback, a lone figure, motionless, silhouetted darkly by the afternoon sun. It was an Apache scout looking down on him as he slowly made his way into the Nations. It was understood that this path was the Western entrance to the land that the various reservations were, and though the Apache couldn't claim the territory as their own, they no less watched as every person entered from this side. Pale Horse rode in the heavy shadows being cast from the hillside and deeper into the nations without incident.
Along the path that led to the Eastern side lie many signs of the tribes that called this land their own. Spears, with the known markings and bright feathering of each tribe littered the path, warning others that they were soon to be trespassing where they weren't wanted. Though the government had designated certain areas for individual tribes to cause no conflict, the Indians sought more land than what was allocated them, and pushed the boundaries further into the domain of the other tribes that inhabited the lands that surrounded them. Though the wars within were fewer, there were still sentries that watched over the imaginary boundaries of the lands they called their own. Pale Horse knew very well of these boundaries, and stayed on the path that led into the nations on the west side, through the nations, onward to the East side. The Comanche tribe to which he belonged were on the Eastern side, just miles this side of the boundaries end.
The days traveled turned slowly into night, and swiftly back into day, and as the crow flies, he could see the tops of a hundred or so tepee's just over the horizon. He was home. This is where he had grown up as a boy, where he learned to ride, hunt, fight, and be the man and Comanche warrior he had become. The anticipation of riding into the village got the best of him, and he let out an Indian cry that set Spirit into full gallop, headed for the very place most dear to his heart. It had been nearly a year since he had seen his family and he couldn't wait to get there.
As he approached the village, many different tribes people throughout started whooping & hollering, and the elders who had seen him arrive began their chants, rejoicing of the infamous son who had once more come down from the mighty mountain to be with them. As he rode through the village, the brothers and sisters of his tribe reached up for him, patting him on his legs, or firmly squeezing his hands and arms, speaking of their joy for his return. Smiling down at them, he made his way towards the Eastern part of the river that flowed through the village, knowing that's where his family would be.
Upon reaching his final destination, his family were just outside of their tepee, alerted of their son's return by one of the braves that had seen him riding towards them, hands outstretched and chanting to the spirits of their joy, and thanking them for returning him once more to the land of which he belonged. A year of worry for their brother and son had come to an end. With a great sense of longing and pride, he stepped down from his horse, and took them in his arms and held them close.
After exchanging hugs and affection, the family eventually stepped into the tepee. Two-Feathers told his returning son that this night would be one of celebration for his family and the entire tribe that was so eager to spend time with their wayward son. The roaring fires of joyous celebration throughout the village outshone brightly the scattered stars that hung quietly in the summer sky above them, while more songs of gratitude and joy were being offered skyward around the main fire. Seasoned warriors and young braves alike, attired in full dress headpieces, brightly feathered and swaying, with their colored facial markings of the Comanche, proudly danced their tribal dances born of ancient times. Pale Horse was pleased in his heart by the welcome his people were showing him. As the dying embers eventually gave way to the soft and waning hours that passed, each member of the tribe embraced him once more, before each of them made their way home to find warmth from the glorious night that had so gently fallen.
The summer moon slowly gave way to the morning light, and the smell of cooked venison, prairie vegetables, and fresh boiling coffee began to wisp and stir in the air. Pale Horse awoke with the sense of home and belonging in his heart. She of Summer Rain, seeing he was now awake, kissed her son on the forehead, and told him his father was just outside, and awaited his presence. He immediately got up, embraced his mother genuinely, and opening the flap of the wigwam, stepped outside.
“Good morning Father,” he said, as Two-Feathers offered his son a cup of hot coffee and returned the greeting, the pride, still beaming on the face of a father proud to have his son once again at home. As pleasantries were being exchanged, Pale Horse couldn't help but notice the darkened clouds that loomed ominously just beyond Crater Rock Lake, knowing that a heavy summer storm would soon be upon them.
While standing next to his father and looking around at the village he had dreamed of many times while he was away, he mentioned that upon his trip back, he wanted to take Winter Crow with him, so she could spend the summer with Temperance at Ben's Ranch, if it was alright with him and mother. Two Feathers said it was fine with him, adding that she hadn't left the village in a long time, and seeing Temperance would do her good.
“Don't worry about your mother,” his father said, “I'll smooth it over with her.”
“Where is Winter Crow this morning?” his son asked, noticing that she wasn't there when he awoke. Two Feathers, smiling, looked at his son,
“Probably waiting for you to come find her,” he said laughing, then sipping on his coffee. He whistled for Spirit, who was now, without saddle, and bareback with blanket. He jumped on Spirit, and raced through the village, knowing exactly where his sister would be, and he, excited to share his good news with her. Two Feathers watched as his son rode away, headed once more for the place he spent so many hours of his childhood before, usually in deep contemplation of the young boy he was leaving behind, and the Comanche warrior he was surely becoming.
The Comanche people called this place, The Valley of Scarlet Tears, for legend had it that a beautiful Comanche princess of long ago had lost her true love, a great Comanche warrior, in a great battle on the very spot, and she cried her blessed tears of sorrow every day and night, till her tears turned the meadows beneath her into Scarlet Indian Paintbrush before she was lifted to the heavens by the spirits that had taken pity upon her.
The highest point that overlooked this valley was the