In the high range of mountains lived the great and powerful Apaches. For
many, many years the war between the Long Knives and the Apaches had
been waging back and forth.
The Long Knives, as the white men’s cavalry were known in those days,
had at last worked out a treaty with the Apaches and all was peaceful
for the time being. With the coming of peace to the Apaches, the return
of normal family life was slowly but surely noticed by the younger of
the warriors.
There was more time now to teach the young braves their lessons, and the
women were happier than they had been. For the past few years all the
talk had been of war and killing, but now conversation turned to other
topics. Of course there were a few young bucks who still chanted for
war, but the wiser chiefs desired to stay at peace for as long as was
possible.
One evening some of the older chiefs were seated around the fire smoking
and talking to pass the evening hours away when their attention was
called to Chief Running Dog, one of the older chiefs of the tribe, who
had been sitting quietly in the circle not saying much but gazing off
into the night as if he were looking for something.
Twisted Wolf spoke. “What do you look for, friend Running Dog? Do you
see something in the distance with those old eyes that the rest of us
should be looking for?”
“No, Twisted Wolf, I do not look for anything in the present, but rather
I am looking far into the past, to a time when I was just a small boy
and there had been peace and happiness in our tribe for many years.”
“Why should you think about the past now, old one? Is there something
particular that you are trying to recall?”
Running Dog laughed, “Oh, I do not have to think too hard to recall what
I want to think about. Something happened when I was a young boy that I
shall long remember. Some of you should remember this one adventure too,
for some of you were just about my age at the time.”
“Tell us,” they cried, “tell us what adventure you recall as a boy.”
“Well,” said Chief Running Dog, “the story I remember is one which my
father liked to call the Race of Death. But I do not want to bore you
with tales of my childhood. They are only memories of an old man who
lives in a world of dreams.”
“Now, Running Dog, do you want us to coax you? I have never known you to
need prompting to tell a story. Why do you need coaxing at this time?”
“Well, it is not a funny story and to me at the time it was not a very
nice experience to go through. Just recalling it brings back some of the
fears which filled my heart at the time. But, if it is your desire, then
I shall tell you the story. Fill your pipes and settle back, because it
is quite a long story and we will be here at the fire for some time
until I have finished. But remember that I warned you. If you get bored,
it is your own fault, for you have asked for this story.”
“Do not ramble, Running Dog. Get on with the story.”
So it was that Running Dog, old Apache warrior, told his story that
evening on the plateau of Apache country around a blazing council fire
with his friends there to relive the experience of his childhood once
again.
“It was many years ago,” Running Dog began. “The Apache village in which
I lived had a very long and difficult time of sickness. Many of our
number had died of the great coughing sickness which the Long Knives
call pneumonia, but it seemed that at last the sickness was leaving us
and our people were returning to a time of good health and prosperity.
There was much mourning for loved ones, but our family had been very
lucky. My father and mother had both survived the epidemic and I, their
only son, had been well all through the siege of sickness.
“The sick continued to get well and little by little the tribe returned
to its normal activity. Once again the contests and games took place and
there was much joy at the ceremonial dances and feasts.
“It was just after one of these feasts that my friend White Cloud and I
decided to take a hunting trip into the far hills. We sought the
permission of our fathers, and packing some food and blankets we placed
these upon a pack horse and started off for the distant high mountains.
“What exactly we were going to hunt we did not know, but we were so
excited about the prospect of living by ourselves for a few days that
the problem of what to hunt did not seem to bother us too much at the
time.
“One thing my father had cautioned me about. ‘My son, Running Dog,’ he
said, ‘on your trip be aware of any strangers. Not too far to the north
is the land of the Kiowas and they have been seen recently in this area.
Just a few scattered here and there, but you and your friend White Cloud
are riding two very fine ponies; and the Kiowas, I am sure, would like
nothing better than to return to their village in the possession of
three more very fine Apache horses, for their very life is one of horse
stealing. The pack horse you take is just as strong and fast as the
other two, so be careful and do not get careless on your trip. You are
old enough now to realize the dangers an Apache faces in this country.
“‘Besides the wandering Kiowas you had best be alert to the cats that
roam the rock ledges. Keep your bow and arrow handy and make sure your
hand is steady, for you will get but one chance to stop the wild leap of
a mountain lion if he chooses to spring. Now I must bid you good-bye. I
have asked the gods to protect you and your friend White Cloud. May they
guide you safely to a successful hunt and a safe return to your homes
and your families. I will ride part way and see you on your way. Come, I
will get my horse.’”
So the two boys, along with Running Dog’s father, rode to the edge of
the camp and a little way farther on, where Running Dog’s father bade
them a fond good-bye once again and turned to return to the village.
The two boys waved until they were out of sight and then concentrated on
the long trip they felt they must make before they would enter good
hunting territory. As they rode they kept careful watch along the trail
for signs of anyone having recently been there.
Occasionally they saw signs where Indian ponies had been but these were
all many days old. They found evidence too of wild game, but at no time
did they catch sight of anything more than a rabbit or two.
After traveling most of the day and stopping only for lunch the two boys
decided to halt and make camp for the night. They found a beautiful spot
near a water hole and after staking their horses out they unrolled their
blankets and prepared the evening meal. In the darkness they could hear
the coyote baying at the moon and Running Dog remarked how sad and
plaintive was the call of the coyote. White Cloud agreed, “Yes, Running
Dog, it is quite a sad sound, but after all the coyote is a very lonely
animal. You too would not feel much like laughing if you had to spend
all of your life alone without friends.”
The two boys laughed and then wrapping themselves in their blankets were
soon fast asleep.
The following morning the boys rose and after eating breakfast, packed
their equipment once again and were soon on the trail, traveling ever
northward. Soon they had entered land that was not at all familiar to
them, but they began to notice plentiful signs of game and so they kept
eagerly onward.
“Look,” cried Running Dog, “pony tracks, and they are fresh. Not too
long ago Indian ponies passed this way. In fact I would say they are not
more than a day old. See, it has been damp here and the impression of
the ponies’ hoofs has not had time to harden through. I wonder though,
White Cloud, why our brothers would be this far north?”
White Cloud thought for a moment and then he said, “But, Running Dog,
you do not think that we are the only ones off on a hunting party. These
are probably the tracks of some of our men who are also seeking game and
have come this far north in search of it.”
“That may be true, White Cloud; on the other hand, these may be the hoof
prints of Kiowa ponies and if so then we are much further north than I
figured and are now in Kiowa territory. That is not a healthy place to
be.”
“What should we do, Running Dog?”
“I do not know. For if we are in the land of the Kiowas we should turn
and return to our own land; but if we are not and these are the tracks
of friendly Apaches we would be silly to turn back, for only now have
the signs of game become plentiful. The problem is whether we should
stay and take our chances or return empty-handed with our tails between
our legs.”
“You are older, Running Dog, you make the decision.”
“All right then, we shall stay and take our chances. I have seen many
signs of deer and we shall find ourselves a large buck to kill before we
return to our village. But come, it is getting late. Let us find a good
place to camp.”
The two young braves traveled a little farther on, and then when they
both agreed that an ideal place was not to be located, they settled for
a small clump of trees nestled in a gully. There was water not too far
distant, and about two hundred yards from where they camped, there was a
large mass of rock ledges that rose up from the ground, eventually
growing into a cliff. In among these boulders and rock ledges they were
able to find a source of water, and so they decided to make this their
base of operations.
To the west of where they camped they had seen a small woodland and
swamp area which they figured would make a good hunting place for wild
game. The boys went about setting up their camping ground and when they
had completed the task at hand they settled down to going over their
hunting equipment.
The two boys having checked their bows and arrows went off to attempt to
find some fresh meat for supper. White Cloud headed for the woodlands to
the west and Running Dog started for the rock formation to the north.
After about two hours of hunting and searching, Running Dog returned to
the campsite empty-handed, but soon he saw his friend White Cloud riding
like the wind toward the camp.
Slung over his horse’s neck was an object that flopped loosely back and
forth as he rose. Soon he was in the camp and swinging down from his
pony’s back he placed a plump young rabbit on the ground in front of
Running Dog and smiled, saying, “Here, little friend, is our dinner for
tonight.”
Soon the fire was blazing, and the two boys settled down to a delicious
meal of roast rabbit. When they had finished their dinner they rolled up
in their blankets and were soon asleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long
day, for they were determined to track down some large game and make
their kill, for their supplies were running low and they must start the
return trip to the village the following afternoon.
The night passed without incident and when the dawn broke it was raining
slightly. The two boys looked at the heavens frowning, but in about a
half hour the sky had cleared and the sun shone through again.
The boys started off for the woodland and their big game hunt. They had
not gone very far when Running Dog glanced up toward the high rock
formations. He did not know what caused him to look in that direction,
but suddenly he stopped and called to White Cloud who had been riding a
little ahead, anxious to reach the woods.
“Wait, White Cloud. Look, look to the north, beyond that formation of
rocks.”
White Cloud turned and gazed in the direction Running Dog pointed. There
rising above the rock formation were puffs of smoke. “Maybe it is the
campfire of another hunting party, Running Dog?”
“No,” said Running Dog, “that is not campfire, those are Kiowa smoke
signals. I will try to make them out.”
“Are you sure they are Kiowa smoke signals, Running Do?”
“Oh yes, White Cloud, many moons ago my father taught me of the Kiowa
smoke signals. Though all tribes use this method the Kiowas have a
definite series of signals before their message. Look, White Cloud. See
that series of short puffs of smoke? That is peculiar only to the
Kiowas. Let me see if I can make out what they are sending.”
The two boys sat astride their ponies watching the signals of smoke rise
in the distance. Running Dog studied the signals as diligently as he
could and seeking back into his memory for everything his father had
taught him about smoke signals.
Then he turned to White Cloud, “Come, my friend, we must hurry. Those
signals are to a band of Kiowas to the south that we are here in their
hunting grounds and therefore have broken the law of the Kiowa and must
die. They are calling to this band to bring our scalps on their war
lances triumphantly to the village. We must hurry, White Cloud. There is
no telling how long that message has been playing in the sky. We did not
notice it until now but that does not mean that it has not been sent
before just now. We must ride to camp and take our other horse and start
for home.”
The two boys wheeled their ponies about and sped back for the camp. They
entered the camp and quickly gathering their possessions together they
put them aboard the pack horse and climbing upon their own ponies they
started swiftly southward. They rode steadily for about an hour, and
then Running Dog pulled up his pony.
“Wait, White Cloud, we are doing just what they wish us to do. We are
running and we have a long hard trip to make. Besides, that signal was
evidently for a band to the south of our camp. If we are not careful we
shall find that we have ridden right into a trap. Let us plan our trip
more carefully. First we must stay away from the main trails. We must
take to the foothills and work our way south that way. It will take us
longer, but there will be less chance of being ambushed, I believe, if
we stay away from the well-used main trails. The Kiowas are a very
tricky people and we would be in a trap before we knew it. They will be
sure to be covering the water holes for they know we must have water. As
far as I know there are but three between here and our village. How much
water do you have in your pouch?”
“My pouch is about empty, Running Dog, but surely we will find water
elsewhere than at the three water holes.”
“There is a good chance that we will, but I do not want to count on it.
After all, our hunters are the ones that are familiar with this land. We
are strangers here and not acquainted with the good and bad points.
Come, our horses have rested. We will leave the main trail now and
continue cross country. It is going to be a hard journey, White Cloud,
but we are racing death.”
With that the two boys steered their ponies from the main trail and
began to travel in a southeasterly direction. Here there was no clear
trail, and they had only the uncanny sense of a homing pigeon to guide
them. They pushed their ponies easily for the first couple of hours, but
finally the steady pace began to tell and they had to come to a stop.
They had entered a green valley and as they rode they noticed an
abundance of game. “Too bad that we are in a race,” remarked White
Cloud, “for here is a paradise of game.” Running Dog said nothing, and
the two boys brought their ponies to a stop. They stepped from their
ponies and rested, allowing the horses to crop grass.
As they lay there, White Cloud glanced back in the direction from which
they had come. Again he could see the ominous puffs of smoke rising from
behind the small hills that separated them from the main band of Kiowas.
After resting a short while and allowing their ponies to blow, they
mounted again and continued their gallop toward their village and
security. Night was approaching now and the boys were glad for they knew
that they could travel much more swiftly at night because it would be
cooler. Besides, they knew that the Kiowas would not attack unless they
were sure they could kill both the boys.
They rode more swiftly now, and suddenly Running Dog’s pony whinnied
aloud and swerved to one side. Running Dog tried to pull him back but
the pony galloped off in a slightly different direction from the one in
which they had been traveling. Then Running Dog understood why, for
suddenly he heard the hoofs of his horse splashing. The horse had found
water. What a break! The boys threw themselves from their horses and lay
flat in the water. Suddenly Running Dog lifted himself from the water
and grasping White Cloud’s arm he said:
“We are foolish. Suppose they are watching this water hole. We sit here
like two fat frogs waiting for the hook. Come quickly, we must leave
this place.” The two boys mounted once again and rode on. Suddenly the
pack horse stumbled and fell. The boys stopped their ponies and returned
to the side of the pack horse. “He will be all right,” said White Cloud,
“he is just winded.”
“We must leave him,” said Running Dog. “We cannot wait for him to regain
his breath and his strength. We must ride.”
Now the two boys could travel a little faster without the pack horse to
slow them down, although they hated the thought of leaving a pony for
the blood-thirsty Kiowas. Finally they brought their ponies to a halt
and dismounted.
“We must rest several hours or our ponies will die underneath us. Try to
sleep, White Cloud. I will stand guard. I will wake you in a short time
and then I will sleep. Do not worry, I am tired, but my eyes and ears
are sharp.”
White Cloud was exhausted and in a matter of seconds he was asleep.
Running Dog kept careful watch and a short time later he wakened White
Cloud. Then Running Dog slept and shortly just as dawn was breaking
White Cloud shook his friend and the two thrust some dried venison into
their mouths to chew and each one taking a long drink of water they
mounted and were soon on their way once again.
They had been riding for about an hour when Running Dog glanced back in
the direction they had just come and there on a hillside a few miles
back he saw a small band of Kiowas. They were evidently looking for
something or someone.
It was not a puzzle to Running Dog long, for he saw the band of Kiowas
break from the hillside in their direction. “They have seen us, White
Cloud! Ride as you have never ridden before. We are near to our land,
but it is still a hard ride and the worst is yet to come. I cannot be
sure if that is a band that is pursuing us or whether it is the band
from the south. In any case, we must keep going. Ride, White Cloud, ride
for your life.”
The two ponies thundered on. Soon they had entered a series of hills.
The second day was fast drawing to a close. Then it happened.
White Cloud’s pony caught his foot in a gopher hole, and down went pony
and rider.
Running Dog pulled his pony to a halt and rode back to where his friend
had fallen. Both boy and pony were down. The pony had evidently a broken
leg and White Cloud had hit his head upon a stone and was unconscious.
Running Dog took his knife and put the horse out of his misery and then
he dragged his friend to the shelter of a rock and poured some water on
his face. Soon White Cloud shook his head.
“What happened?”
“Your horse stumbled. I have had to use my knife on him, his leg was
broken. But how do you feel?”
“Oh, I am a little dizzy and very tired. But go, Running Dog, you must
ride to the village for help.”
“Yes, White Cloud, I must do that, but I am lost. I do not know where we
are and the sky is black tonight. We must stay here until dawn. My pony
is all done in anyway. He would not get very far tonight. We will rest.
I will stand guard first.”
With that, Running Dog moved off to a small crevice of rock and settled
down to keep watch. But the grind had been too much even for him, and
before too long his head hung low upon his chest and both boys slept.
Suddenly Running Dog woke with a start, hands of steel were holding his
arms and legs, pinning him where he sat. He struggled and then he heard
a familiar voice, “Why do you struggle so hard, my son?”
“Father, it is you. Oh father, I am so glad to see you. But tell me, how
did you find us?”
“Well,” said Running Dog’s father, “we too have eyes and saw the Kiowa
signals while off gathering some horses that had strayed. We rode to
meet the invader, for we knew that they would have come far into Apache
territory to catch those that they pursued. So we rode to attack the
band. We were able to defeat them and send them running for their homes,
but before that we were able to learn from one of their dying braves
that you, their quarry, had ridden in this direction.
“I am sorry we were holding you when you awoke but you are mighty fast
with the knife and I did not want to take the chance of being killed by
my own son.”
They laughed and then the party returned without further incident to the
safety of their village.
* * * * * * * *
“Here my story ends,” said Running Dog, “but I shall long remember the
events of that Race with Death.”