Winter Rain

Jeremiah longed for the day he would be allowed to go on his first war party.

Eleven summers old he told his adopted father he was now, and learning more of the language from Bridge every day, forgetting more and more of his own as the seasons turned. Like his brother Zeke, Jeremiah hungered to ride out on the raids, to come back bearing the red-hued scalps, draping themselves in glory with the rest of the young warriors.

“But first,” the pale-eyed war chief explained, “first you must learn patience. Learn all you can while you wait. When it is time, you will ride with me.”

“And bring back scalps?” Jeremiah had asked.

“Yes. Many scalps, Tall One.”

Jeremiah had liked his name from the start, when it was given him by Bridge, his adopted father, many seasons ago. Only rarely did he have reason to recall his Christian name. Fainter still in the recesses of that old life was his family name. He could not remember the last time he had said it with his own tongue, or heard his brother use it. They no longer spoke much English to one another. Having grown so accustomed to using the Comanche, they used the tongue even when by themselves. It had been a long, long time now since anyone was wary and watched them. No longer was anyone concerned that the two boys would run off, try to escape.

How silly that would have been, Tall One thought. The People had rescued the two boys from pain worse than any death a youngster could imagine. While the white marauders and the Mexican comancheros had toyed with and tortured the two brothers, the wandering Kwahadi had given the white children shelter, food, a purpose to learn—had given them family once again.

Their new family replaced that which the freebooters had destroyed more than three years before. It grew harder each day for Tall One to remember the faces of his mother, his sister, harder still to recall the face of his father. Seven years gone now. Tall One had been only four when his father walked away from that tree-ringed valley, marching out of Jeremiah’s life.

“Do you remember Papa?” he had asked of Zeke in those early days among the marauders, the comancheros, and finally here among the Antelope People.

Young Antelope could only shake his head. It made sense that there remained no memories: he was something on the order of two years old when their father marched off to fight the war.

It all seemed so far away, and utterly meaningless now—something that made Tall One ultimately angry at his father. If anyone was to blame for what had happened to the farm and their family, to their life together, if anyone was to blame, Tall One figured, it was their father. Had he been there when the freebooters rode in, things likely would have been different. No one would have gone through the pain they had.

But for the past two winters now, he and Antelope had a new home. Zeke was a runner. At nine summers he was faster than many of the older boys. So it was when the names were chosen, Antelope fit Zeke best. Tall One seemed to grow more and more overnight now, his toes repeatedly punching holes out the end of his moccasins, his leggings shrinking with the coming of each new moon, so it seemed. They had taken to their new life with unsated appetite. And with all they learned about the Kwahadi, the more they forgot of what life they had lived before.

That remained like another lifetime for Tall One. Like it belonged to another person. It was, after all, a story he but dimly remembered: that story about … yes, his name was Jeremiah. Again, his other name came harder. And the face of his father, hardest yet to recall.

For the longest time Tall One was unable to figure out exactly who these people were. He recalled what the Mexicans called the band of warriors on the morning the brothers were captured by the horsemen far out on the Llano Estacado, the Staked Plain of the Texas panhandle country.

The Mexicans called the horsemen Comanche.

Yet the warriors and their women never used that term. Instead, they referred to themselves as The People, and seemed to have some fuzzy and descending hierarchy for all the rest of the tribes and other-skinned people. Over the seasons Tall One came to discover that there were other bands of The People: Honey-Eaters, the Waterhole or River Pony, and Hill Falls Down, while the Buffalo Followers and Root-Eaters were among the most populous of the bands. But these Antelope, these Kwahadi, seemed to wander wider and farther than all the rest put together. Even so, never did they journey within sight of the white man’s forts nor the territory the white man had established for the Indian nations.

The Antelope People stayed free, hunting buffalo, ranging long distances to kill the infringing white settler and steal his spotted buffalo, his horses and wagon mules. Then they returned to the nomadic villages to dance over the scalps, make love and more babies, sing their songs, and cast new lead bullets before riding out for more attacks on the white man.