and more bear meat. After what passed for breakfast, McCulloch busied himself the rest of the morning by rubbing down the horses, keeping a lookout for any riders—especially scalp hunters—and nodding at Wooden Arm every now and then.
It was after noon before the kid spoke.
Not that McCulloch understood more than a handful of Comanche words, but he stopped what he was doing and squatted in front of the kid.
He signed, How are you called?
The boy answered, but hell, McCulloch wouldn’t remember that if he heard it ten thousand and ten times. He said, “I will call you Wooden Arm.” Again he signed, I am called, then said, “Matt.”
“Watt,” the boy said.
“Good enough.” McCulloch smiled, then checked the boy’s wounds and arm.
The boy turned downright conversational.
In Comanche, “Why did you not kill me or at least count coup?”
McCulloch thought he got all of that. He answered with his hands and fingers, speaking as he signed, You saved my life.
The boy’s head shook. No, I protected me, he signed.
“You were hurt,” McCulloch said, and tried his best to sign, There is no glory in counting coup or taking the scalp of someone injured. He smiled and tried to add, But I would have had women singing in my camp had they learned that I counted coup on a Comanche brave enough to fight and kill an angry black bear.
He must have done a good job there. The hardness left the boy’s eyes and he smiled, then nodded, and muttered something in that rough tongue. He grinned at Matt and said, “Watt.”
Matt laughed. “Wooden Arm,” he said, and added with his hands, is my friend.
The boy straightened. He looked lost in thought, maybe confused. Comanches did not care much for white men and hated white Texas men.
McCulloch went back to work.
That night, eating more bear meat, what looked to be old juniper berries, and chased down with McCulloch’s coffee and the last of the Mexican’s whiskey, McCulloch was trying to figure out what to do with this kid. He couldn’t keep hanging out there forever. If he took the boy to a Comanche camp, he figured the Comanches would kill any white man foolish enough to enter a Comanche camp before anyone had a chance to explain.
While he was considering his options and vaguely wondering Why didn’t I just kill this Indian while I had the chance? the boy cleared his throat. McCulloch set down his coffee cup and stared over the fire as Wooden Arm moved his hands. Why are you in these hills?
How he managed to sign with a busted arm splinted in two places amazed the former Texas Ranger.
McCulloch answered honestly. I seek mustangs.
Why?
Comanches like horses, McCulloch thought. He signed, I like horses. They make me rich. Like Comanches.
The boy laughed.
McCulloch drank more and ate the last of the bear meat on his plate.
The boy signed, I can help you.
McCulloch blinked. Help me do what?
I know horses, too. I am Comanche. No one knows horses better than Comanches.
McCulloch nodded with honesty. That is true. Comanches are the best horsemen on the plains.
I will help you.
Now, McCulloch shook his head. No. Your arm is—
Quickly signing, the boy did not let him finish. A Comanche with one arm is better than ten Texans when it comes to capturing wild mustangs.
Actually, McCulloch didn’t think Wooden Arm used the word Texans. It seemed more like skunks, but he figured Texans had to be the general idea.
As McCulloch tried to think of a way to respond, Wooden Arm signed, You save my life. I must repay my debt.
McCulloch pointed at what passed for the grave of the two dead scalp hunters. You have repaid your debt.
The boy shook his head. Then he smiled and said in Comanche while signing. Then we will be like brothers. You and I will find mustangs. We will become rich. Together.
And in English, Wooden Arm said, “Is right.”
Staring harder, McCulloch wondered how much English this little Indian knew, but Wooden Arm spoke to end McCulloch’s suspicion. “Is right. No mas.” Then he signed, I can speak ten words in the Kiowa tongue, but with these hands, I speak all languages. As do you.
McCulloch brought the coffee cup up, lowered it, and looked over at the two horses. Like that was a sign. Two horses. A Comanche. A Comanche on horseback didn’t need two arms to help work a herd of mustangs. A Comanche could likely find a horse herd faster than McCulloch could alone. And two men, even if one of those men was a boy, would have an easier time driving wild mustangs back to his ranch outside of Purgatory City. Yeah, it was a gamble, but something about it struck McCulloch as right.
Never being one to count those chickens—he knew that plans and dreams often broke like eggs—McCulloch couldn’t help but believe that he might be able to pull off this crazy idea after all.
He nodded. “Is right,” he said, and lifted his hand toward his new partner. They shook the Comanche way first, and then they shook like way of the white Texans.
Wooden Arm grinned, raised his head to the blackening sky, and howled like a coyote.
CHAPTER NINE
Linton had been a scalp hunter since he had first heard about how the Mexican government in towns close to the American border would pay a handsome amount of money for an Apache or Comanche scalp. In all those years, what had it gotten him—other than a lot of money that he usually spent in two or three nights? A dapple horse. A suit of buckskins. Some disease he never brought up, especially to the prostitutes he paid. Fading eyesight. A bad scar across his back. A bullet that the sawbones in Nogales hadn’t been able to dig out of his left knee. And two pards, Bert and Fisher, neither one worth a lick of salt.
“What about Amigo?” Bert asked as they rode into Two Forks, a settlement where horses could be traded, whiskey could be drunk, and a man might be able to rest a spell without answering any questions.
“He’s dead,” Linton answered.
“You sure?” Fisher asked.
“Maybe you boys want to ride back to the Davis Mountains and see for yourselves.” Linton’s knee hurt for he had been riding a long damned time. His horse was as played out as his two pards.
“How about Greasy?” Fisher asked.
“Oh, he’s definitely dead,” Linton said. “Saw the Ranger’s bullet hit him.”
“Hell,” Bert said. “Now that Texas star packer’s
