Comanche Sundown: A Novel

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48 4 N ocona sat in the Canadian bottom until the moon was high. He’d missed his supper: a woman in the camp had offered, but he had little appetite these days. As he started back a sound of bulk erupted from a cottonwood, and a GreatHorned Owl, dark as charcoal in the light, beat its heavy wings to stay aloft and crossed the river right in front of him—gave him a terrible fright. Owl could be many things. Then he heard the footsteps behind him. He walked faster, and the footsteps broke into a trot. “Oh, no,” said Nocona. Turn around, he told himself. Confront it. But the courage that could save him was a dry well in his heart. He dropped the sack of plums and started running. Overtaken easily , he raised his arms, lurched and staggered from the clouts upside his head. They fell like the war club of a Ute. In the camp Quanah had given his plums to Weckeah’s mother, Nice Enough to Eat. She asked him to join them for a supper of marrow and mesquite bean mush. “How’s your dad?” Yellow Bear inquired after his friend’s health. “Seems better,” said Quanah. He stayed until it grew awkward then announced he had to go check on his horses—he owned all of two head. Every time Quanah started to build a herd, his dad renewed his mourning and gave them away. Weckeah dawdled until what she was doing was also apparent , then walked to a sand bar around the river’s bend. They were sitting on the sand watching the moon and kissing when they saw his father stooped and wading upstream. Quanah reached him first, then jumped back like he’d stepped 49 on a snake. Nocona’s hands were gnarled, an elbow was pressed hard against his hip, and his neck and jaws were wrenched far around. He was drooling. Weckeah gasped and said, “Twisted face!” Quanah picked him up on his shoulder while she ran for help. In the lodge Nocona lay on his back, breathing all right, but unable to stand or speak; a nervous and morbid crowd had gathered outside. Yellow Bear brought in a torch so they could see—it was not a pretty sight. Nocona’s face was drawn from his right hairline to his left jaw. Water poured from eyelids that were stretched blood red. He raised his hand like the glare bothered him. The puhakut Jaybird Pesters walked in carrying a protective fan of crow feathers. “Bedeyai,” he quickly diagnosed. Ghost done it. │• You had to be an Indian to suffer the dread disease twisted face, or ghost sickness. Time would come when white folk tried to convince Quanah it was just something they called a stroke. Quanah knew better, and all the rest of his days, he worried and wondered if he could get it. Some people had mild cases. They hated what it did to their looks, how it beat their hands into useless claws, but after a while the ghost let go, and they got back almost normal. But Quanah could tell that Nocona was in bad trouble. Parts of him were useless, and all at once the people seemed to believe that if they didn’t break camp right that minute, they’d never see another buffalo. Quanah was having to father his own dad. But a woman who’d known Nocona all his life was supposed to hire the medicine man. Every woman in the band who fit the description turned him down—even Nice Enough to Eat. “Will you do it?” Quanah asked Weckeah. “Can I?” she said, rattled. 50 “I guess he’ll tell you if you can’t.” “What do I say? I’m scared of that old man.” “Just ask him if he’ll treat my father. Tell him I’ll pay what I can.” “Which is what?” “Well, everything we have. I’ve got to have a horse to ride, and so does Dad, if he lives. That leaves one mare and a mule.” Jaybird Pesters consented to treat the fallen warrior. When the shaman came, Quanah had a pipe of tobacco waiting. He offered it first to his dad, who was supposed to sit up and smoke. Nocona eyed the pipe with an agitated sigh. Quanah couldn’t bear to look at him. He smoked four times...