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CHAPTER ONE Guipago's Vow Cynthia Haseloff Born in Vernon, Texas, and named after Cynthia Ann Parker, perhaps the best known of nineteenth-century white female Indian captives, the history and legends of the West were part of Cynthia Haseloff's upbringing in Arkansas, where her family settled shortly after she was born. Her first novel was Ride South! (Bantam, 1980), an unusual book featuring a mother as the protagonist searching for her children out of love and a sense of responsibility. Another unusual female protagonist is to be found in Marauder (Bantam, 1982). Both of these novels have subsequently been reprinted by Chivers Press in hardcover reprint editions. Haseloff's characters embody the fundamental values--honor, duty, courage, and family--that prevailed on the American frontier and were instilled in the young Haseloff by her own "heroes," her mother and her grandmother. Her stories, in a sense, dramatize how these values endure when challenged by the adversities and cruelties of frontier existence. Her talent, as that of Dorothy M. Johnson, rests in her ability to tell a story with an economy of words and in the seemingly effortless way she uses language. Haseloff's most recent novels are The Chains of Sarai Stone (Five Star Westerns, 1995) and Man Without Medicine (Five Star Westerns, 1996). The story that follows was especially written for inclusion here. Guipago stuck the blade of his knife into the earth and dug his hands into the blood-red sand. He clawed it into his fists. Raising his slashed arms, he let the sand trickle slowly back to the earth as the piercing lamentation flowed from his throat. "Aheeeeeee! Tanankia, my son," he said over the scattered bones and remnants of clothing before him. "My son, I will bring you a white man and kill him for you here where your bones now lie. Great Spirit, hear my vow." Guipago rose to his feet and turned to the men around him. The young men, his son's friends, stood awkwardly with heads down. Red Horse, Guipago's brother, was still bent over the bones of his son, weeping. Their boys, cousins, had ridden off in the first adventure of young manhood, full of hope, full of pride, hungry for war honor that would give them a place of honor among the Kiowa people. Now both were dead, their bodies left by their companions as the Mexican lancers had forced them and the Comanches, with whom they rode back across the border. Guipago closed his eyes against the glare of the spring sun and the burning tears that seared his eyes. "You have heard my vow, all of you. I will kill a white man where my son's bones now lie." Guipago stood now in the trees, watching the schoolhouse, waiting for the man he knew was inside. Five years had passed. Five hard years for the Kiowas and for Guipago. He had refused the peace road after Tanankia's death. He had led his people away from the agencies. He had hit the Texas Rangers at Lost Valley, turned north, and fought General Miles's soldiers, holding up Lyman's supply train for four days, pinning the dispatch riders in the buffalo wallow for two. And then he and the People had fled across the Staked Plains and into the depths of Palo Duro Canon with their Comanche friends. Ranald Mackenzie and the Fourth Cavalry found them there and drove them farther onto the plains, where the winter winds blew unimpeded by land or structure, where there was no food, and the children died. Only a Kiowa could have found them then. Zepkoeete came. "Come in," the warrior who hated white men said. "Come in and live in peace. They are too many to fight. You have been to Washington. You have seen their ways. To white men we are as wolves, running on the prairie." Zepkoeete's words were true. When Guipago brought his people in, the white men put him with the other chiefs and warriors in the unfinished ice house at Fort Sill and threw chunks of meat over the high walls to feed them as if they were wolves. Zepkoeete was given immunity for bringing them in. Guipago, and the others, Woman's Heart, Bird Chief, White Horse, Buffalo Bull's Entrails, Double Vision, Mamanti, all of them, together with the Cheyenne, Comanche, and Arapaho chiefs, were sent in May to prison at Fort Marion, Florida. Gray Beard, a Cheyenne chief, had died fleeing from the train as it drew ever closer to the prison. Mamanti died in the prison. Some said it was because he had used his spirit powers to curse and kill Kicking Bird, the peace chief who had named the war chiefs and their warriors, named them for the whites to imprison. Some said simply that Kicking Bird was poisoned with strychnine, and medicine had nothing to do with it. But Mamanti had died. And others had died too, not really victims of the heat of Florida but of their own hearts. A Kiowa cannot stand prison. Satanta had said that even on a reservation they grow pale and die, but he knew nothing anymore of the life of a free man who had spent his whole life on a horse moving over endless prairies once he was in a thick-walled cell with a small window covered with bars. Now Satanta was dead, too. Guipago had not been with them in Florida where, at least, they were all Indians together. He was put alone in the prison at Huntsville, Texas. Enfeebled, life draining from him with each day, he had run off the second floor of the hospital and found again his freedom. To live in prison a man must have patience, and he must have a purpose. Some men found ways to be patient, passing the time with drawing or working or gambling or sleeping. Some men found purpose in the hunger again to see their children and wives and mothers and fathers. Guipago had found patience and purpose in his vow to Tanankia. The white man came out of the schoolhouse. Guipago watched him closely. John Goforth Ditsworth climbed the ladder propped against the building and returned to his work on the shingles. The teacher had not changed. He was still thin and tall. His cropped hair still stuck out where he had run his hands through it as he read. Rimless spectacles still aided his gray myopic eyes. So, Johngi, Guipago thought as his fingers touched the cuffs and chain that hung from his saddle. You have not gone home. You are still meddling with the poor Kiowas. Will your gentle God protect you from me? This time I do not think so. Then, as he trotted his pony into the school yard, he called out: "Johngi! Johngi, come down and talk to one who has been away a long time." Friend John, called Johngi by the Kiowas from his first introduction as John G. Ditsworth, looked down on the Kiowa chief who sat looking up at him. Unlike many Kiowas, Guipago was lean and sinewy. His face was tight copper skin stretched over hard angles. A few deep seams allowed it to move. Prison had not changed him much outwardly. His hair was dark as ever, worn in the old way, with the left braid cut off below the ear and the right wrapped in red flannel. Earrings of shells and watch chains ornamented the margins of his ears. He wore a white shirt under a white man's vest and a pair of frayed gabardine trousers, but on his feet were moccasins, beaded and trailing long fringes. Guipago was dressed up. John did not see but felt there was something about the chief that was not there before, a sadness. Perhaps he grieved for Tanankia, the lost People, the lost years. The Quaker laid down the shingling hatchet carefully on the new split wood. "Guipago, the children said thou was home. Why hast thou taken so long to come to the school? There are many things I want to show thee." After ten years among the Kiowas the schoolteacher could speak their language without thought, but he spoke now in a Quaker's English. As John backed down the ladder, Guipago spoke softly to himself. "And I you, Johngi." "Get down Guipago," John said, reaching up to shake the Kiowa's hand. "I have my lunch inside, and we will eat something." John had never entered a Kiowa lodge without being offered food. Many times he had eaten while his hosts had nothing. Guipago stepped down from the pony, tossing the rope reins high on the horse's neck. The horse followed him like a puppy. "I see your horse has not forgotten you." "No." Guipago stroked the broad jaw. "He has not forgotten the old ways." "Best buffalo pony I ever saw," the Quaker said, remembering the pony's quick swerve as he heard the twang of the bow string and took himself and the rider away from the dying buffalo's fury. "Where is your woman, Johngi?" asked Guipago as they walked together toward the shade of the porch. "She has taken the children back to Ohio during the summer recess," the schoolteacher said. "Their grandparents are hungry to see them." "Yes," said Guipago. "One can grow hungry to see a child." Ditsworth looked down at the dust he kicked as they walked. On the porch he found his lunch and offered a sandwich to the Indian. They ate together in silence on the steps, watching the sky and land around them. "Come, Johngi," Guipago said as he stood. John looked up. "It is time to go from here." The teacher left his sandwich and stood beside the chief. He wiped his hand on his trousers, ready for the final handshake that always formally ended a visit. "I had hoped thou would stay and talk with me as we once talked," he said. "There is something I want to show you," the chief said as they walked to his horse. He removed the chain and cuff from the saddle. "Look, Johngi. This is what the white men put on me when I surrendered." Ditsworth looked at the shackles, his gentle jaw set. All his life the man had hated chains and the power of one man over another that they stood for. He had seen their marks on the fleeing slaves he and others of his faith had smuggled north. He had felt his own shame and the disgrace of his people when they fitted shackles over the Indians' wrists and ankles. "Hold out your hands, Johngi," Guipago said softly. "I will show you how iron feels on flesh." The Quaker offered his wrists and watched as the Kiowa placed the cuffs over them and clamped the iron together. "There," the Indian said. "We can go now." John Ditsworth looked up into the Kiowa's black eyes. "Go?" he said. "Yes," said the Kiowa. "You are my prisoner." The Quaker straightened. A frown compressed his open face. "Thou art my friend," he said. "You are my white man," Guipago said. "This will cause trouble, Guipago." "No, Johngi. This will not cause trouble. I have thought about this. You are the perfect white man. Your woman is away and will not miss you. The other white men and the Indians know that you travel about among the bands. They will think you have gone somewhere with someone else. They will not miss you. And your God will not let you fight me." "And what dost thou intend to do with me?" asked John Ditsworth. "I will kill you." The teacher looked about him. He did not doubt that Guipago had the will and the power to kill him. He was a Quaker, not a fool. He had never been blind to the depredations of the Kiowas even as he had loved them. He had put his life in their bloody hands many times in the belief that a man, red or white, can change when he is led gently to a better way. Guipago dropped the rope noose over John Ditsworth's head. "Come, Johngi. We will find your horse. Our road is long." The two men rode away from the empty schoolhouse. Tied in the saddle with Guipago leading his horse, John looked for someone to whom to call out. The only living thing he saw was a sandhill crane at the edge of a withered cornfield before all civilization disappeared behind them. Guipago led Johngi through the broken land and sand hills into the twilight and across the moon-made shadows. He did not stop to rest, to eat, to sleep. He let the horses drink at the streams they crossed. He did not let John drink or eat. They rode on into the coming day, into the heat of noon, and into the blessed benediction of twilight before Guipago pulled Johngi from the saddle and tossed him a slice of dried meat and a gourd of water. "Sleep now," Guipago said. "This is about thy vow, isn't it?" asked Johngi after the water quenched his thirst and cooled his parched lips. Guipago checked the knotted rope around Johngi's neck and tied the end around his own arm. "Johngi, if you run, I will only find you. Sleep now," Guipago said and rolled into his blanket. John shivered. The night was as cold as the day was hot. He looked at the shackles on his wrists. The flesh was red and worn away. "Friend John," he said aloud to himself, "thou art a fool." Friend John, a thought skittered across his brain, get up and smite this loathsome, heathen Indian to death and make thy escape. Then the small voice inside said: Friend John, will thy faith stand though sorely tried? On the third day Guipago arose from his blankets refreshed and ready for the day's journey. After he untied himself from John, he removed the noose casually and coiled the rope and dropped it over his saddle. He bathed his face and sang his morning song to the Great Spirit. Hollow-eyed John Ditsworth sat against the rocks with his shackled hands draped over his outspread knees. "You should sleep, Johngi," Guipago said. "This is about thy vow to Tanankia, isn't it?" asked the Quaker. "Yes," said Guipago, eating a strip of jerky and washing it down with a long drink of water. He rinsed his mouth and his hands and stood up. "Thou propose to take me to Mexico and kill me on the spot where Tanankia was killed?" "Yes. That is the vow. How do you know this vow?" Guipago asked. "It is a famous vow," said John. "Once Kicking Bird warned me, but that was so many years ago. It was washed away." "You should have listened. A famous vow must be kept. It is never washed away. A man would lose his face. Then he would have to die." Guipago rose and went to the grazing horse. "Come, Johngi. Saddle your horse." John picked up his saddle, blanket, and bridle and started toward the horse. When he forced the bit gently between its teeth, he lifted the headstall and pulled the thick ears through. With his thumb he worked the coarse forelock from beneath the brow band and smoothed it. He put his arm to the elbow through the reins and picked up the blanket. "You are good with the horse," Guipago observed. "Not like an Indian, but good. A quirt would move that one better," he added, lifting his own highly ornate whip. "We do not strike other creatures .. beast or man," said Johngi. Guipago laughed. As John lifted the saddle to throw it onto the horse, he considered it. It was a Western saddle, heavy with horn and cantle and wide leather skirt. He had removed the showy tapaderos, although he found them functional for safety in rough country. Now the thick wooden stirrups were exposed. The metal rings of the double cinches clanked together as he started to swing up the saddle. Compared to the Eastern saddle, he thought, it was monumental. John glanced at Guipago, busy with his own horse. The lead rope hung from his saddle. The Indian had not yet placed it over John's or the horse's head. The two men stood together between the animals, the Indian working and preparing to mount from the right, the white man from the left. John turned back to his horse, smoothed the saddle blanket, and pulled it to the ground. "Guipago," said John. The Indian turned to see what he would say. With a grunt Ditsworth swung the saddle up and into Guipago's face, catching him hard with one of the heavy stirrups. Guipago fell back. John threw himself onto his horse and kicked it away into a full gallop. He lay low over the horse's neck and held tightly to the mane as the animal streaked across the prairie. "Come on, come on," he said, listening to the horse's labored breathing. The best buffalo pony that John had ever seen soon closed the distance to the big American horse without any effort. When Guipago came alongside, he struck the Quaker full force with the backward swing of his fist and forearm, sending him tumbling off. The buffalo pony cut away. Guipago circled it into a stop in front of the fallen man. John saw the blood on the Indian's cheek where the stirrup had hit him. He lay back, letting air return to his empty lungs. Guipago turned his horse and rode after the other animal that had stopped to graze. He led it back to John. The teacher stood up, dusting his clothes, rubbing an elbow hurt in the fall. "Johngi," the warrior commanded. The fallen Quaker straightened. Guipago looked straight into his eyes as he stuck a rifle behind the ear of John's horse and pulled the trigger. The horse crumpled after the concussion of the gun. John looked down at the dead horse then up into Guipago's face. Guipago tossed his rope over John's head and tightened it. "You will walk now, Johngi." Guipago turned his horse away and led the teacher behind him. John barely heard Guipago's words. "You are a child in these matters." The next days were agony even for a man who was accustomed to walking. John suffered. Grilled by day and frozen by night with feet that swelled and ached, he followed Guipago deeper and deeper into the empty land and away from any salvation. Most of the hours and days passed in silence. Both men were used to silence and did not fight it with idle words. Guipago, though once thoughtful and sometimes eloquent in council, now found words tiresome, even useless. He had spoken his vow. Action was all that was necessary. Each step was one closer to the fulfillment of the only important words that remained. John G. Ditsworth had learned as a child to wait in silence for the still small voice within him. These past days he had missed it in the tumbling thoughts of his mind. His fear had ruled him, leading him to the foolish escape attempt. As he walked behind Guipago, he worked to quiet the tumult. He was not surprised when, at last, it began to speak. Thou hath lost thy faith back there. John heard the words clearly in his mind, but if asked he would have said they impressed themselves on him. Thou ran without being sent ... taking matters into thine own frail hands. Friend John, thou are not a warrior and not suited to contend with men of war on their own terms. Remember thyself: That night John retrieved the worn journal from his jacket pocket and began to write. Guipago watched as the sunburned man bent over the pages beside the fire. John wrote: July 19, 1879. Guipago and I are traveling now toward the site of his son's death in Mexico. Kicking Bird told me that, when Guipago found his son's body lying on the ground, he kneeled down over it and vowed to the Great Spirit that on that ground where his son was killed he would take the life of some white man. Now, to kill a white man on that ground, he would have to catch one and take him there. Guipago says that I am the perfect white man for his purpose. I have been among this people with much sorrow and many tears; under discouragements and heavy burdens; in heat and in cold; in hunger, in thirst, and in weariness; in sickness, in weakness of the flesh and weakness of the spirit; in perils, in privations, and in cruel besetments of the enemy; alone as to the outward, and a stranger among a strange people. Yet hath the Lord supported, and by the right arm of His power, notwithstanding my many slips by the way, sustained and upheld me in all and through all. Even at times when His presence has been, or seemed to be, withdrawn, His hand has been underneath to bear up and keep me from falling, to make a way where man could make no way, and to overrule the counsels of the most hostile men. It may be, though Guipago does not mean it for good, that I am the perfect man for his purpose. "What do you scratch upon the papers?" asked Guipago. "I am writing a record for my family," the Quaker said as he closed the book. "I do not want them, when they learn what becomes of me, to worry that I suffered from great anguish or fear." "You should be afraid," said the Kiowa. "I was about to write about that truly hard and dangerous time," said John, "when Satanta and Adoltay were in prison and I was held hostage by the whole Kiowa tribe." "Oh, that was not dangerous, Johngi. They were only holding you, maybe kill you if things go wrong. I am going to kill you for sure. Do not think I will not. You are nothing to me one way or the other. Perhaps I even like you a little, but I will keep my vow." "Yes," said the Quaker as he kicked a brand back into the fire, "I also made a vow long before I knew thee or these circumstances. I had nearly forgotten it in the cares of life. I broke that vow. I repent me of it." John cleared his throat. "Guipago, I ask thy forgiveness for hitting thee with the saddle and causing thee pain." Guipago laughed and slapped his hands down on his knees. "I forgive you, Johngi." The Kiowa continued to laugh as he made his bed and crawled into it. "Pain? A mosquito bite!" When Guipago awoke, John G. Ditsworth stood over him with arms raised and a large rock between his shackled hands. "Lie still," the Quaker said. "So you can kill me easier?" asked the Kiowa. "You have fooled me again, Johngi." Guipago started to lift the covers. John hurled the rock down with all his force. The Indian lunged for him, shoving him back until they both lay on the ground. "I will kill you," the Indian said through clinched teeth. "Thou cannot," John whispered. "To kill me here would break thy vow. Thou must take me to Mexico alive." "Then perhaps I will gouge your eyes out or burst your eardrums." Guipago spoke the words, pushing his thumbs into Johngi's eyes beneath the sparkling spectacles. "Then who will see and hear thy rattlesnakes?" whispered John, holding the wrists of his captor. Guipago jerked his hand free, looked at the teacher, grasped his hair beside his ears, and banged his head down hard against the ground. Releasing his grip, he rose to his feet. "There had better be a rattlesnake under that big stone," Guipago stated as he moved toward the rock hurled by the Quaker. The Indian stooped and raised the slab, revealing a very flat snake. "I got him," exulted John. Guipago's mouth twisted wryly. He taunted. "Smashed the poor thing to bits, gentle John. Took pride in your cunning, too." More seriously he added: "Killed your deliverer, Johngi." As the days of long marches continued, a pattern began to evolve. They rose early. Guipago bathed his face and sang his morning prayers. John sat in silence, listening to his inner voice. During the day the men rarely spoke at all. Guipago was not generous with food or water but merely sustained his prisoner. He kept the rope on his neck and rode triumphantly before him. In the evening they made a small fire. Guipago had coffee and sugar, which he did not share. John wrote in his journal. The Indian played cards. "Johngi, play cards with me," he said. The Quaker looked up. "I do not play cards, Guipago." The Indian tossed a card toward John's hat. "You don't play cards. You don't drink whiskey. You don't smoke cigarettes. And you have only one woman. Johngi, you lead a pitiful life, and soon you are going to die." Another card sailed into the black hat. "I should take you to the Comancheros and show you a good time before I kill you." John closed the book. "I am not discontent with my life. I have chosen it, knowing its joys and disciplines, just as thou hast chosen to be a warrior and know the heathenish joys and disciplines of that life. As a result, I do not gamble away my family's food or house. I do not make a fool of myself with whiskey and wake up with a bursting head and heaving stomach. I do not regard the lack of any of these things to be a sacrifice or even a loss." "You are not a man, Johngi." "Thou defines a man by his vices, Guipago, not by his spirit." It was the teacher speaking. "A man would fight me." Guipago sailed another card. "Why do you not fight me, Johngi?" "Thou art not my enemy," the Quaker said simply. Guipago smiled. "But I am your enemy." The Kiowa pulled the long gleaming knife from his belt, turned it, observed it in his hand. "I will kill you with this knife, Tanankia's knife. I am your enemy." The next day Guipago pulled up his horse at the top of a jagged escarpment. John walked to his side. A shimmering desert lay before them. "There is no water from here or even on the other side that a white man can find." The Indian spoke softly. He looked down at John, clad in his dust-covered black hat and dirty black coat and trousers. "That is the no-water country. Today, Johngi, the land will test you." As far as John Ditsworth could see, the emptiness stretched out. There was not color in it or the sky. The unimpeded sun rose over it, crossed it at leisure, and pulled away the color as well as the moisture. The great orb was the cruel prince, the self-consumed monarch of the heavens who would tolerate no glory but his own as he strutted over the land. At John's feet the earth split and fissured, unable to grasp and hold itself together under the pressure of the sun's relentless power. He stood looking at the scene until the rope tightened against his neck, then he stepped off behind Guipago. At noon they had not reached the center of the plain. John saw lakes with tree-lined banks and tree-covered islands. They floated before him then disappeared just as their shade and water seemed but a few more steps away. He closed his eyes at last, denying the mirages the chance to tantalize him further. The faces of his wife and children moved against the backs of his eyelids. His tongue swelled, filling the cavity of his mouth. He pressed back against the rope around his neck, letting it draw him on, pulling him, towing him through the waterless sea. Many times John fell. The rope never went slack. Sometimes he grasped it with his blistered, bleeding hands and let Guipago pull him across the sand. But the heat burned through his hat and shirt, and he called out. The Kiowa let him get to his feet, then moved on. Guipago rode under a shade made from his blanket, propped by his bow and quiver. When John fought with thick fingers to loosen and throw off the shirt and jacket, the Indian jerked hard on the rope. "No, Johngi," he said and moved them ever on. The strong boots the Quaker wore became leaden weights, anchoring him to the searing ocean bottom. The thought flickered across his mind that, if he kicked them off, he might rise and break the surface and breathe again. But there was not time to reach down and pull them off. They became wet and clung to his feet until the blisters broke and the leather chewed the raw flesh. He walked on until the boots became brittle with salt and fell away in pieces. "Johngi," the voice came through the humming in his ears. "Johngi, drink." Guipago poured a thin stream of water onto his burned lips. John grabbed his hands and held them as the measured drops ran into his mouth. "Roll the water around on your tongue. Hold it in your mouth a long time before you swallow." John looked up into the face above him and, as a child, held the water obediently until he had to swallow. "How much farther?" The words cracked as they struck the dry air. "We are across," Guipago said. The warrior scraped the sand away with his hands. He let the water fill the depression before pushing the empty gourd beneath the surface. When it was full, he walked back to the place in the shaded canon where John lay. The Quaker was little more than a skeleton dressed in scraps of clothing. Guipago wet the rag that now covered his eyes. John twisted away. Guipago held him and ran the rag over his stubbled face and throat, then replaced it over his eyes. He sat back on his heels. For three days he had watched over John, stripping off his coat, soaking it and the blankets in the scraped pools, covering him with the wet, cool cloths until the bursting heat of his body came down. "Do not die, Johngi. You must be alive when I kill you or the vow will be broken." "The vow," murmured John. "I must keep my vow." "I am tired of you," Guipago said. "If we were on a raid together, I would leave you. It is customary. I have done it before without a thought. A man expects to be left if he cannot keep up, if he holds the others back and endangers them. That is the way of warriors." Guipago became thoughtful. "It is not a good way, but it is the way of warriors. Once some raiders had a man wounded very bad. He was no use to them. Waiting for him to die would take too much time. So that night they decided to leave him. They left him at a water hole, near enough so that he could get water if he lived. They left him a little meat. And they piled rocks over him so, if he died, he would be buried and, if he lived, the animals would not eat him. They left him very well off. "After they had gone, a wolf came and ate the meat. He was grateful to the man, so he dug away a few stones and lay down beside him. He kept him warm when it became very cold. When other animals came to see if he was dead and could be eaten, the wolf ran them away. He stayed by the man. And the man knew he was there. And he thought his medicine had sent him the wolf as a protector. So he began to live. He got water. He got some game. The wolf hunted with him. They became brothers. When he came home, the wolf came with him, but he would not stay in the camp. The People did not hurt that wolf ever because he had saved a Kiowa. But finally that man moved away to live with the wolf. He lived with him many years. And when he came back, he was a quiet man." Guipago concluded: "I have often thought of that man and that wolf. How could this be ... two enemies?" Trapped by the sickness of this white man as he had been trapped by the prison bars, Guipago grew restless. The smooth canon walls suddenly reminded him of the interior of his cell. He wanted to breathe. He picked up his rifle and went to look for something to fill his empty belly, something for Johngi to eat. When he opened his eyes, John Ditsworth saw the sliver of moonlit sky between the canon walls. His head thumped, and he was thirsty He sat up on one elbow and looked about. The fire smoldered, sending threads of gray into the air. Down the canon he saw the white markings of Guipago's paint pony. John reached out and took the water gourd and drank. He wiped his mouth and sat up. "Guipago?" he called weakly, then, mustering strength, called hoarsely but more loudly: "Guipago." There was a faint echo from the canon, but nothing more. John stood. His legs gave way. He sat back on the sand. Sweat popped onto his forehead, and his head swam. "Guipago," he said and lay back. As he lay, John began to shiver. He pulled his coat and the blanket to him, but his feet were still cold. He raised himself to pull the short blanket over them. He noticed they were no longer swollen. He ran his hand over the raw redness and knew that they had been oiled and tended. "Guipago," he said softly to himself. When the Indian had not returned and the moon had come full over the canon, John made himself stand. He walked feebly to Guipago's saddle and gear and dropped to his knees. The coffee and sugar, the playing cards, the heavily beaded moccasins, all lay where their owner had left them. This, along with the grazing pony, convinced him that the Indian had not simply abandoned him to die. He looked again at the gear. Only the carbine was missing. Most likely that meant that Guipago had gone to hunt. John rested, thinking. He looked at the sky. The canon made it difficult to tell the time, but the teacher was sure the moon had passed the zenith and was descending slowly into the morning. If Guipago had gone hunting, he would have gone in daylight. He would not have gone so far that he could not have gotten back before night. Perhaps the game was heavy. John considered that. If he'd expected to take big game, he would have taken the horse. Would he have taken big game by chance? If he had, surely he would have come back for the horse. John sat up. Something was wrong with Guipago. He could not get back. Take the horse. Leave, a voice said inside him. There will never be a better chance. John pulled on Guipago's beaded moccasins. The Indian's women had made them for him, anticipating his return, honoring him, making it special--new road, new moccasins. The Quaker limped and staggered toward the pony, then led him back to the saddle and gear. After slipping on the simple, bitless bridle, he placed the blanket, but it took several tries to lift the saddle atop. He rested before tightening the cinch. John put a moccasin in the stirrup and climbed aboard. The little pony's head came up, and he eyed the new rider. Holding the reins, John suddenly realized he had no real power over the horse--no bit, no white man's training. Guipago moved the animal with his legs, even his thoughts. John squeezed the belly. The horse moved forward. He released his legs, drew the reins to him, and sat back. The pony stopped. John smiled. "Friend horse, I want to leave here, and thou must carry me," John said. "Where I do not yet know, but away will do for now." He squeezed the sides and released his hands. The paint moved off down the canon, away from the fire and Guipago. John rode for some time. All and all he was well pleased to be moving away from his own death. Wilt thou run again without being sent, John? the still small voice asked. "What didst thou say?"John asked aloud. Wilt thou run again without being sent, John? "But everything was there," the Quaker said. "Everything for my escape." Wilt thy faith stand though sorely tried? asked the voice. John blinked. In thy vow thou put thy trust in God, not in men or circumstances. Thou knowest Guipago is in trouble, or he would have returned. Thou knowest that there is no other help for him but thee. There is no love in what thou plan to do, John. Thou art only taking up thine own life again. John turned the horse around. By the time he returned to the camp, first light was coming into the well of the canon. He rode down the winding way to the canon floor, following Guipago's faint footsteps in the red sand. At last he found where Guipago had begun to climb. The teacher dismounted weakly and hobbled the pony. He crawled after Guipago. Coming into the open, he looked around him. A clear path led off toward the east. He followed until it twisted out of sight and back into the rocks and crevices. "I will love, but I will not live forever. Mysterious Moon, you only remain. Powerful sun, you only remain. Wonderful earth, you remain forever." John recognized the voice and the words of the Kiowa death song. He followed slowly, tentatively, feeling his way toward it. It grew louder, but he saw nothing. "Guipago," he called, leaning his trembling weakness against the rocks. "Guipago, where are you?" "Here, Johngi," the voice called out. "The rocks collapsed with me, and I am now in this crevice." "`And the Lord will hide thee in a crevice in the rocks,'" John said to himself and ventured to the edge of the path. Below him Guipago stood looking up from a chamber. Smooth as polished marble, its walls offered nothing to grab hold of and nothing to stand on. It was too deep for him to leap up and catch the lip. It was too large for him to put his arms and legs and back against the walls and climb out. It was a perfect prison. He cannot follow you from there, a voice inside said. John turned and started away. He walked hastily back the way he had come. He leaped a small gap, fell, and cut his hands but got up and walked quickly on. He slid the last thirty feet and fell at the horse's feet. The pony shied. John caught the reins as he rose. Taking the ropes from Guipago's saddle, John made the return trip as quickly as his weakness could carry him. At the pit he stopped. He looked around for a spot to secure the rope. There was nothing except an outcropping above his head. He would have to toss a loop over it. He made three tries before it caught. John dropped the end of the rope to Guipago. The Indian leaped for it. He tried again, then again. The rope dangled inches out of his reach. The trembling Quaker leaned out and caught the rope. He loosened the line and tried to shake it off the outcropping. It stuck. Below him Guipago was cursing. John tried again, and the rope came off. "Canst thou climb, Guipago?"John asked. Guipago nodded. "I will try to hold thee." "Speak louder, Johngi," the Indian shouted. "I said," the Quaker returned, "I will brace myself to hold thee, but thou must use thy strength to climb out. I do not think I can pull thee up by myself, and the horse is too far away. I will call out when I am set." John tied the rope around his waist. He moved back into the rocks where he could wedge his long body and secure a hold. "Climb, Guipago." The rope jerked tight on his waist. John winced and pushed harder against the rocks. Guipago caught another hold. The rope jerked again. John slipped but grabbed and held. "Hurry," he said. "Oh, hurry. Dear God in heaven, I know we can do this together. Amen." The jerks continued on John's skeletal body. Each time he thought he would come loose, but he held. John was still pushing the rocks when Guipago released the constricted rope and pulled it roughly over his shoulders. The Quaker relaxed and smiled into the Kiowa's face. "This changes nothing," Guipago said, tightening the noose around John's neck and starting away. "I am still going to kill you, Johngi." The Quaker followed. "Did you get anything to eat?" "I lost my gun," Guipago said. "Good," the Quaker said under his breath. "Now thou will have to slit my throat." "I have done it before," said Guipago. As they walked along the winding canon, the two men shared the last of the jerked meat and some ground mesquite beans. Guipago led John as before with the noose around his neck. At nightfall they made their last camp. "I do not understand you, Johngi," Guipago grunted. "I would have left you." "But thou didst not leave me," John said. "Thou nursed me after the desert. Cooled me, fed me, dressed my feet with oil." "I must have you alive for tomorrow." Guipago spoke to the small fire where his coffee boiled. The Quaker sat quietly for a time. "Guipago, I did leave thee." "But you came back." The Indian poured coffee into a cup and dropped in a handful of sugar. He handed to it John. "What made you come back, Johngi?" He thought. "All my life," he said, "I have gone haltingly. If I had left thee, I would never walk sure. I would have left my faith for good." "You kept your vow," said Guipago. "Guipago," the Quaker asked, "doth thou remember the time I came to thy camp with the telegram from Washington that demanded the People turn over the five young raiders or Satanta and Adoltay would not be released?" Guipago nodded. "When thou heard the message, thou went away to think, and the next morning thou gave me thy answer. Doth thou remember what thou had me write?" Guipago looked at the fire as John drank the burning coffee. "I said I wished Washington would let it pass. If those foolish young men have killed any of the people of Texas, they are dead. If some of these young men have been killed, they are dead. Let it all pass ... do not let it make trouble among the living." "Then thou learned that Tanankia had been killed. And thou took the war road. Thou did not let it pass, Guipago," said John. Guipago took a deep breath and released it. "Tanankia was my son. The wolves had eaten his body. A father cannot look on the scattered bones of his child without remembering his vow to give that child a good life. I failed that vow. I will not fail the one I made to his bones." John Ditsworth handed the cup back to Guipago. "We drink from the same cup, Guipago. Good night." The Quaker lay down and closed his eyes. Guipago pulled up his blanket and rolled onto his side. Before he closed his eyes, he thought he saw in the darkness beyond the fire the shining eyes of a wolf. He sat up and chunked a stone at the spot then lay back. In his dreams that night Guipago saw the wolf digging up the buried Kiowa and lying down beside him to warm him. He saw the bared teeth as the wolf fought its own kind to protect the Indian. Why? Why? he thought when he awoke. A wolf and a man are enemies. And yet that wolf had one spirit with that man. Guipago went back to sleep. At sunrise Guipago went off, washed his face, and sang his morning song to the Great Spirit. When he returned, he woke John. "Come, Johngi," he said, dropping the noose again over the teacher's head. Guipago wore only his moccasins and a breechcloth. In his hand he carried his son's knife. The sun caught the blade as he led the Quaker away from the dead fire. Reflections danced into John's eyes. Guipago stopped at last and turned to John. His eyes never left the Quaker's face. Quickly, with a rough sure hand, he thrust the knife toward John's throat. The rope fell away. Guipago grabbed the man's arm, jerked it forward, and cut a gash across the palm of his hand. John winced as the blood spurted. Guipago slashed his own hand and grasped John's, letting their blood flow together. They stood. Each held the other's hand as tightly as he could, forcing his blood, his spirit, into the other. Blood ran down their forearms and dropped into the sand where Tanankia had died, now red with blood again. Guipago released John's hand and walked away. John stood watching the Indian. Guipago stopped on a small rise and turned back, looking at John and the bloody place where his son had died. "Come, Tangui, let's go home." John stood, without moving, questioning the Indian with his whole being. "Have I not killed the white man?" the Indian asked. "Your old man is dead. You are my brother, Guipago's brother, Lone Wolf's brother. I give you a new name, Johngi. You are now Little Wolf, Tangui. You never left the dying Kiowa, and you made him hope to live again. Come, we are men to make a new road together. I have kept Guipago's vow." Copyright © 1997 Golden West, Inc.. All rights reserved.