Tworivers
Copyright© 2025 by Harry Carton
Chapter 19: The People of the Tall Grass
Wind Rider signaled the Apache scouts to hold position just beyond bowshot range – close enough to observe but not provoke. The parley circle between Comanche and Crow looked tense, both sides gripping weapons despite the white buffalo hide spread between them. Broken Wing stiffened beside him, spotting familiar Crow war-paint on several warriors. “Grey Hawk’s band,” he murmured. “They hunt cougars in winter. Good fighters.”
Tall Pine edged forward, his rifle barrel catching sunlight. “The Comanche war chief is Black Horn,” he whispered. “His sister married a White Mountain Apache. He knows our ways.”
As they watched, Black Horn suddenly ripped open his deerhide shirt, revealing a chest crisscrossed with old scars – and one fresh brand: the same fleur-de-lis mark Broken Wing carried. A murmur swept through both tribes. The Crow war leader mirrored the gesture, showing identical burns.
Helmut inhaled sharply. “Mein Gott ... this is not just slavery. They’re marking them like cattle.” His fingers tightened on the Girardoni’s trigger guard.
Wind Rider noticed movement at the Crow camp’s edge – a cluster of women and children crouched behind makeshift barricades of overturned travois. Their faces were gaunt, eyes hollow. One old woman clutched a toddler against her chest, both branded visibly on their wrists.
Black Horn suddenly turned toward the Apache scouts’ position, his voice carrying across the dry grass: “Wind Rider! Your rifle killed Frenchmen at Santa Fe. Come speak truth here!”
The Crow warriors whirled, spears rising — until Broken Wing stood in his saddle and called out in their tongue. Grey Hawk’s eyes widened. “Broken Wing? They said you were dead at Apache hands!”
“LaFollet lies,” Broken Wing spat, riding forward with empty hands. “The Apache gave me this.” He pointed to the freshly stitched arrow wound in his shoulder. Then he yanked his collar down to show the older brand. “The French gave me this. Who do you fight today?”
A Comanche elder stepped forward, his face a map of wrinkles. He carried no weapons—only a bundle wrapped in blue trade cloth. When he unfolded it, the stench of rotting flesh hit Wind Rider like a fist. Inside lay the severed head of a French officer, lips sewn shut with sinew, the Habsburg execution mark carved into his forehead.
Black Horn spat on the ground between them. “LaFollet’s lieutenant. He came yesterday offering women as slaves — if we hunted Crow for him. The women were of all tribes: Apache, Crow, Shoshoni, Arapaho, and even Sioux. All the women wore his brand.” His hand flexed around a musket stock. “We kept his tongue too. It lies in my tipi. The women are now in our village — not as slaves, but as honored guests.”
Wind Rider felt the tension shift – the Crow women were emerging now, clutching children branded identically to the Comanche. One girl, no older than ten, held up her wrist to show a fleur-de-lis still weeping pus. Broken Wing made a sound like a gutted animal.
Tall Pine dismounted, his rifle slung across his back in deliberate non-threat. “Apache scouts saw smoke west of here. Villages burning.” He pointed to the Frenchman’s head. “His men did that?”
The Crow elder nodded. “Three moons ago, they came with gifts. Three nights ago, they came with fire.” He touched two fingers to the dead man’s sewn lips.
Black Horn turned the musket in his hands – Wind Rider recognized it as French-issue, but the stock bore Comanche beadwork now. “LaFollet thinks we will fight each other over scraps.” His knuckles whitened around the weapon. “But he has made us brothers instead.”
A commotion erupted at the Crow camp’s edge. Two warriors dragged forward a struggling figure in torn European clothes—his hands bound with rawhide, face swollen from beatings. Broken Wing hissed recognition: “De Vries. Dutch trader I saw negotiating with LaFollet’s lieutenants.”
The Dutchman’s left ear was missing, the wound crusted black. He babbled in mangled Crow, then switched to French when the warriors shook him. Wind Rider caught the word “silver” and “north passage.”
Helmut lunged forward, grabbing the man’s chin. “Habsburg markings,” he muttered, turning the Dutchman’s face toward the light—a faint row of inverted triangles branded behind his right ear. The Austrian’s grip tightened. “This one worked for the silver smugglers in Santa Fe, I think.”
Wind Rider looked at the man, then at Black Horn and Grey Hawk. “He will say anything to save his hide. But you came to this parley to decide important things. We came as scouts that come before a large war party — to see if we come as brothers of our new friends the Comanche, or as new brothers of the Crow. We know that the Crow have raided the Apache for a long time, but we hope that we can all work together against the new enemies: the French. What say you brother Comanche and brother Crow? Can we have peace in the tall grass?”
Grey Hawk answered first. “My warriors have fought the Apache since I was a boy. My father’s father fought the Apache. But my brothers and sisters have been sold into slavery by the French and their men, who brand our women like animals and make our small daughters cry. We will make peace with the Apache, and with our old enemies the Comanche.” He stood and strode forward to Black Horn and offered his war club. A peace offering.