* * *
Clint awoke from his second day in the Chumash camp feeling strong. He stretched and yawned, and stepped out of the mud hut. Chahett, as the girl had carefully indicated her name to be, had left the hut before he woke.
At less than a half-dozen paces on each side of the hut, the guards lay curled in deerskins. One of the men reclined on a willow backrest. He stretched when Clint stepped from the hut, then walked over and kicked his fellow guard. They followed Clint as he walked into the brush to relieve himself. The men made no move to restrain his freedom but shadowed him a few feet away.
When Clint returned, the camp was busily at work. Unlike the activities he had witnessed the other day, this time most of the women were mending long lines of woven, then, braided, fibrous reed, and the men were busily sharpening flint spears and checking the binding of twelve-inch flint heads to long wooden shafts. Truhud and his followers were nowhere to be seen.
Something’s up, Clint thought, but had no idea what the excitement could he. He helped himself to a handful of berries then sat down to watch. He wandered about the village and watched for hours as the preparations went on; then the whole tribe gathered near the fires.
He realized that there were more families in the village than he had originally guessed, for each of the larger houses held as many as four families.
As the shadows grew long, the men began to dance, but this time Hawk motioned for Clint to follow him away from the fires and into the darkening forest. At first Clint was apprehensive as he trailed Hawk, but he watched carefully and saw that the two guards did not follow. His curiosity was aroused. They walked up and over a nearby hill then Hawk reclined against a rock covered with lichen. He fished a stone-bowled pipe from his carrying net, packed it with tobacco, and lit up.
“Pestibaba,” he said, motioning to a small antelope-horn tobacco container. He handed the pipe to Clint and smiled as Clint winced after taking a small draw.
“It is very strong,” Hawk said in Spanish.
Clint snapped his eyes up at the man, who stared off at the distant mountains, now shimmering golden in the setting sun.
“You’ve decided to talk to me?”
“We have taken a vow to go back to the old ways,” Hawk said, taking another draw on the pipe. “The better ways, we have decided. But I must admit, the Spanish tobacco is better than ours.”
He gave Clint the slightest hint of a smile then his face hardened again. “Do not let my people know that I have spoken to you in the Spanish tongue.”
“Why have you decided to ‘go back’?” Clint asked.
“It is enough for you to know that we have. I will not speak the Spanish tongue again, so listen carefully. Truhud is a powerful man among the Chumash. He is our paxa, a shaman to you. He thinks we should kill you and any who discover where we are. By not killing you, I am taking a great risk. Should you tell the missions of our whereabouts.”
“I owe the missions nothing, and I didn’t exactly try to come among you,” Clint said, taken aback at what Hawk was saying, even though the paxa had already made it plain enough. “It was the will of the sea and the wind.”
“And the will of Sup,” Hawk added, “but the paxa says it is Sup’s way of testing our resolve and we will offend him if we do not kill you.”
Clint did not respond. Silently, his fists balled at his sides, he watched as Hawk took another draw on his pipe.
“There is a hunt planned. Afterward, if all is well, I will take you to Santa Barbara where there are others of your kind who trade there. Stay out of Truhud’s way. He is well named, what you call the rattlesnake. He strikes with little warning.”
Clint nodded as Hawk continued. “Stay with me. Do as I say, and you will be among your kind again.”
“Why do you help me?”
“There are good and bad among all people… even ours. And if I learned one thing at the missions, it is that there is wrong thinking in all peoples… and you were brought to us by Sup, our god.”
“What is your trouble with the missions?”
“It is not of your concern. Let it be enough that I will help you return to your people.”
“Thank you,” Clint managed.
“It is nothing,” Hawk said, and started back to the camp. “Remember, I have not spoken with you. And take caution with Truhud. Even my power is limited. He is a powerful man.”
As they entered the village, Truhud, the rattlesnake, stood with three ominous, frowning warriors who watched Clint and Hawk return to the fireside.
Clint and Hawk sat for a while, and the women served them. When it grew fully dark and the moon appeared, Hawk rose from his cross-legged position in front of the fire and began a slow rhythmic dance. As it progressed, other men joined in while still others shook turtle-shell rattles, beat hollowed-out logs, or played low-toned bone flutes. The women did not join in, but clapped in rhythm.
Soon two men, their bodies completely blackened, joined the dance. Hawk circled them, feigning with the spear. The blackened men danced with their arms tightly held to their sides, their bodies swaying like snakes. Finally, Hawk feigned driving the spear home, narrowly missing the men, who fell to the ground, and the women fell upon them, pretending to hack at them with stone knives, and the dance was over.
Clint went to his hut with the ever-present guards flanking him at ten paces, and wondered what the dance signified. He waited for a while, anticipating Chahett’s arrival, but she did not come.
That night he slept lightly, an ear tuned to the silent step of the paxa and a quiet dread of what the morning might bring.
Six
Turk, among the lucky survivors thanks to Clint Ryan, sat in a dark corner of the cantina. A wide-hipped señorita served as camanera, barmaid, and kept the marineros’ mugs full.
Wishon sat across the plank table from him, away from the rest of the crew of the Savannah. Six men sat around two larger tables near the light of the open doorway. One group was rolling dice carved from pieces of wood; the other was playing whist.
Captain Sharpentier and Cecil Skinner, the surviving officers of the Savannah sat in a far corner with a cholo guard, talking in low tones. The marineros sipped the murky brown grape brandy aguardiente and the guard clear, white-hot pulque made from mescal, and cooled its bite by nibbling equally scalding chiles from a wooden bowl in the center of the table.
The Savannah’s officers and crew drank and ate by the grace of the owner, who kept a chit and counted on the good graces of Bryant and Sturgis to pay the bill the first time another ship of their firm called at Santa Barbara.
A short, powerful man, Turk sat low in his chair, his head hanging, his whiskered lips almost touching the mug on the table. “It not be right,” he mumbled drunkenly.
“What?” Wishon, the dark Carib cook, asked, squinting his eyes to focus on his Turkish friend.
“It not be right, by all that’s holy.”
“You been mumbling dat for de last hour. What de hell ‘not be right?”
“John Clinton Ryan was not the man at fault for sinking that rat-infested tub,” Turk muttered. He was below.”
“So?” Wishon scratched his tightly curled salt-and-pepper hair.
“So… he was never called to watch.”
“Hell’s fire, man. He must have been called; he jus’ did not show. Wit de weather like dat, who de hell could stay on deck a minute longer dan he had to?”
“A bloody sot, that’s who.”
“What you mean, man?
‘That sogger bastard Mackie,” Turk said. “He always shirked, and he was always in the grog. Clever bastard, though. I never knew him to get catched. The cap’n would have cagged him right and good, but he never got catched.”
“He was supposed to call Ryan to de watch. I bet he was in de stores, suckin’ at de grog barrel, when he shoulda been fetchin’ Ryan to de watch. The Carib took a deep draw on his mug, draining it, “I never knew Clint Ryan to shirk, dat’s a sure ting.”
&n
bsp; As a member of the starboard watch, same as Ryan, Turk was expected to stand up for his watch mate. Even the second mate was expected to stand up for the crew since he ate with them and slept in the fo’c’sle. But Wishon was one of three independent members of the crew—the captain, the first mate, and the cook,
Turk eyed the Carib, wondering if he might have some influence with the captain. He shook his head to clear the fuzziness away. “We should speak to the cap’n.”
“No, man. I wants to work on anudder Bryant and Sturgis ship. They has some fine full-rigged ships. Not all be rat-infested brigs like the Savannah. Why make de trouble?”
“But Clint’ll be hanged, for a wrong he didn’t do.”
“He be a dead man. He drowned. Why worry de cap’n wid a dead man?”
“Maybe he’s not dead. He’s strong as a young ox. If any survived, it would be Clint Ryan.”
“Den if he not be dead an’ he show up, we go talk to de cap’n.
“He may have saved my life.’
“De cap’n?”
“No, fool, Clint Ryan.’
“I carve you ears off and feed the gulls wid’m, you calls me fool again,” Wishon growled. “Why you tink Clint Ryan not on de watch?”
“He carried me on board after I took a dive into the foremast. I guess I knocked myself out when we reefed.” He furrowed his brow and looked puzzled. “I been thinkin’ on it ever since we got ashore. Ryan was below. He carried me topside, and he couldn’t have been on watch, ‘cause he was below.”
“Den here be to Clint Ryan.” Wishon offered his mug in toast, “An’ to both ends of the busk.”
They drained their mugs, and Wishon rose and stumbled toward the bar. “I be gettin’ us anudder mug of this slop, an’ we talk on it some more.”
Soohoop, the Hawk, awoke well before Father Sun began chasing Daughter Moon across the sky. It was the day of the great hunt, one the tribe had planned for during the whole of the awakening moon. They had fared the sleeping moon well, the women and children were fat with the plentiful food from all four moons of last year, and again the land was greening. It was good.
Hawk rose, stretched, and stepped from his hut. Tuhnow, the Badger, was awake and had the communal cooking fire stoked. The rest of the tribe still slept.
Hawk eyed the small hut where the Anglo slept and wondered about the man. The marinero Ryan had seemed nearly dead when the tribe had found him on the beach, but he had recovered quickly. The paxa Truhud wanted the man dead. He was of no use to the tribe, Truhud argued. Ryan had nothing but hunger, and that the tribe did not need. And he was an Anglo, almost as much of an enemy as the Spanish. Hawk had tested his authority by overruling the paxa. He must not be proven wrong.
Now that they had saved the white man from having his bones dry on the beach, the tribe was responsible for him. Sup would frown on the tribe if the man was now harmed or came to harm from others—unless Ryan offended the laws of Sup. It was a responsibility Hawk had thought on long and hard, then argued vehemently about with the paxa, before he had Badger give Ryan the water.
“It is time to test the man’s worth, and my judgment,” Hawk thought as he crossed the distance to the hut. He stepped inside and nudged the sleeping man with his toe. Ryan was instantly awake, wary and watchful, ready for trouble. He quickly pulled on his boots and gained his feet.
“It is a good sign,” Hawk thought. “A man who is alert, who does not complain, and who is this one’s size could he useful to the tribe. He did not make trouble then Chahett did not come to his sleeping mat last night. Maybe he is wise enough to know that it is bad medicine to take a woman the night before a great hunt. A man needs all his strength and more. He needs good medicine. He needs the hand of Sup on his shoulder. Yes, this man seems to be different than most Anglos. My judgment was good,” Hawk thought, “at least so far.”
Hawk went from hut to hut and soon all the men had gathered around the fire. Each brought his spear and a carrying net with a gourd of water, jerked venison and fish, and a knife. Clint followed them to the horses and watched them ready the animals with carved wooden saddles over woven blankets and bridle them with headstalls only—no iron in the mouth to control the animal. Hawk saddled a mare and led her to Clint, who nodded his approval and mounted.
It felt strange at first, since Clint had not been in the saddle for over three years. The little mare, fresh to the morning, ducked her head and bucked, landing hard on all fours. Hawk watched with approval as the mare kicked and humped her back, and Clint patiently brought her to respect him.
Clint looked over his shoulder as they rode from camp and was pleased to see that Truhud stood watching them leave.
At least he would not have to watch his back.