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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Firemouth
Tom Sheehan
He came busting downhill toward the Canadian River, riding the big grey, Jeremiah, to the last inch, both hearts pounding, the pounding felt both ways, and the dozen Comanches riding hard, hungering for his goods … his horse, his guns, his boots, his clothes.
And the only way out was over the edge coming close upon him, the edge of the wild river he’d fished as a boy, worked as a youngster on Hyde’s Ferry for California-bound folks, and as a man leading posses in the endless pursuit of killers, horse thieves, rustlers, kidnappers, and any other kind of critter messing up life.
It was a long way down, into the Canadian River, the gorge deep, the water fast, but escape possible … for the daring. Jeremiah didn’t deserve any of this, he thought, but it was, as the old sages said, “Do or don’t git on.”
The Comanches behind him could ride faster and farther than any Indian he had come against in all his grass time. Or anyone else for that matter. They did tricks on the bare back horses nobody he knew had a chance of doing. Many of them slung themselves with a certain grace on their mounts without saddles; probably until they stole one, like off Jeremiah’s back if they had a chance. The Spanish, long before, tried to take over all Comanche territory, but they could not beat down the Comanche nation; at least not this part of it in the Texas Panhandle, their resistance formidable, fatal to many opponents, but often heroic at any point. And the Spanish had brought horses with them, which ran wild in the west only a century later. What a trade-off, the old sages also said.
The result, later in the history of the Comanche, was to attack settlers, steal horses, cattle, women and children along the Llano Estacado, called the Staked Plains, running from western Oklahoma all the way to Mexico, crossing the Texas Panhandle on the way. They did it often until something was tossed into their path, like worthy obstacles. For a while, Kennedy Norgren was one of those obstacles … but that sure looked like it was about to end.
Tight on Jeremiah’s back, his boots controllable in the stirrups, the pair sailed into the air as the rim fell away behind them. Norgren looked down to more than a 50 foot fall as they came away from the rim, cooler air rushing past his face, slamming into his ears, as the river rose to meet them, the dangerous rapids above and below the point where they would hit the water. With some luck (he hoped) he had picked a place he was somewhat familiar with, no spread of rocks below him (he hoped), the water deep (he hoped), pooled up for this instance (he hoped), log debris gathered elsewhere on the river’s run, (he surely hoped).
It was clear sailing from land’s departure and clear landing at water’s impact.
Down river after the great splash and Jeremiah, strong as ever, keeping him afloat until they rounded a tight bend where they came aground on a small banking, and seemingly protected from view. There was no wood available even for a small fire, but cover was available from a rugged overhang where some debris had piled up allowing a softer bed for sleep. Man and horse spent the night there, and Norgren saw again, heard again, the images and sounds that came to him in the fall. He could not measure the span of years that came to him as he faced possible death plunging into the Canadian.
And, of course, there was the rest of the journey, downstream, mid-stream for a run, until a break came in the sheer cliffs, broken only in a few places that would allow him to ascend but not Jeremiah. He could not leave his horse; his horse would have to get him out, and to safety. Norgren immediately recognized the fact, the plight and the lone promise.
His mind had come up with continual surprises as he tried to sleep … and old gifts, the odd kindnesses he had known in his life … begun alone on the grass, the vultures floating in wait overhead, the Indian maiden, Blue Cloud, who heard his cries and took him to her cave where she too was hidden from those who would harm her.
He remembered a lot of her when he was a young boy, but never the early words she had said over him: “Little Yell,” she said as she put the first name on him, “I will watch out for you until they catch me, or we find a place for you. The Gods have told me so, told me what to do with myself and you. It was in my own nʉmʉ tekwapʉ̱ tongue that the gods spoke to me, so it is for me to obey.” They eventually lived in a barn owned by a settler, whose wife adored the boy, could not separate him from Blue Cloud until death took Blue Cloud when a bolt of lightning struck her a fatal blow.
Little Yell was renamed Kennedy Norgren on the spot, with his own room in the ranch house; he was seven years old and refused for a long time to answer to his new name. His step-father, Robert Norgren, took care of that problem when he presented a pony to the boy. “His name is Bugle,” said Norgren, and waited until the boy called him “Bugle.” Then he said, his name used to be Carpenter, but we changed it to Bugle. It’s a better name for a pony.”
The boy understood and answered to Kennedy the next time so addressed, and by choice it was Ken from then on, “Almost a half breed, but ain’t,” as one of the Norgren cowpokes admitted.
All these events, even the sounds and the slight touches of hands, came back to him in that steep plunge into the Canadian, and again on the banking where he and Jeremiah found rest in the long night. Some of the memories came clearer than others, some mixed with ferocity and love: the last image he had came in terrible repetitions, Blue Cloud, lit up like a fire arrow as she stood at the well with a bucket of water. The sound of thunder had not buried her last cry. He wore that brand forever.
When the Dorsett family of settlers was annihilated by a band of men, Ken Norgren, now a robust 18 and an excellent rider and manager of horses as well as the hand gun and rifle, was the first volunteer to go on the chase. It took two weeks, but the band of men led by ex-Major Reed Murray of the U.S. Army was successful, getting all but one of the Comanche. Young Norgren found a mission in life, to right the wrong the way he saw it, always balanced by the memories of Blue Cloud. The last ignition, the last flare, never went away; even the strike of a match or the toss of an ember from a dying fire brought it back.
Luck, as it might happen, gave young Norgren a clear and memorable picture of the lone Comanche who had escaped the posse; he called him Firemouth as Blue Cloud had called him. The hawk-like features of the Comanche, the high, tight cheeks of an ax face continually made an impression on Norgren, for the nose of the man was also sharp, his eyes black as a night cave, his brow wide but narrow carrying more mystery and threat than usual in a mere look, a stare across battle grounds.
This time out, broken away from the posse by a puma’s leap into a bunch of horses, he had escaped alone down one ravine and broke out onto the grass with some Comanches pursuing him. He saw again, in one glance, the cutting and fearful features of Firemouth.
“It won’t be the last I’ll see of that Comanche,” he spoke aloud to himself, words of promise, words of destiny.
He said it again in the pre-dawn flash, the false dawn limping into the declivity of the river, the shadows and deep shades of gray/black hollowness limping away at the first promise of sun. It was a whisper this time, and it was whispered to Jeremiah, as much a warning as a word of hope. He rubbed Jeremiah’s flank, rubbed his neck, ran his sure and confident hands through his mane, and spoke the soft words into the ear of the animal.
They were ready for the rest of the journey, however it came.
Into the Canadian they slipped from a clinging shadow, man and rider, but the man not in the saddle but clinging to it with one hand, his other hand on the huge frame of the big gray, telegraphing his own sense of confidence and promise.
Jeremiah was a strong swimmer, though Norgren did not have knowledge of how long he’d sustain his work at it, as it did require much of his power and energy. Once they had attained the end of the bend and the river became an avenue of morning silver out in front of them, Norgren heard the first cry from high overhead, a Comanche announcement, a warning to others. The cry came again and seemed to ring up and down the river walls, blaring off them like a bugle. Fainter, from further away, came replies, several of them. The Comanche were up and at it at first light. Again he saw First Lightning’s face, and then saw Blue Cloud in her last moments.
He patted Jeremiah again, whispered again above the sound of running water, for it was now plaid compared to some points above them … and below them. His gaze kept searching for places of rest, places to hide in, and saw a new one as promising as the previous night’s. They had been an hour in the current, the land above them in some change, as more breaks appeared in cliff walls, but none that would allow Jeremiah to climb. The new rest site was attained with a few strokes, and man and horse climbed into a decidedly bigger declivity in the wall. The pair stood unseen in the crevice almost a wagon wide, but still under an overhang Mother Nature he affirmed had left for them.
Jeremiah nickered once, twice, and Norgren patted him and spoke newer soft words in his ear as he rubbed his flanks, ran his hands through his mane. Jeremiah nickered again and rested, his legs locked.
Noon had come and gone, and the sun had come directly off one wall and passed up-river as day moved on. This time out they’d try a different tact, Norgren thought, remembering that the Comanche were on one side of the river and most surely were still on that side. He’d look elsewhere.
A new bend in the river loomed ahead of them and he saw a different kind of break in the cliff face, a more distinctive break, a sheer side of mountain had separated and fallen to the base of the cliff. He prayed for a way out, and decided they’d try for that before evening. It was a gamble, for to be caught out in the river in darkness could be fatal for both of them.
It was worth a chance; life was a chance, and he had had a couple already. He looked for another.
Again the slipped into the Canadian in the same manner, Norgren whispering, rubbing Jeremiah, being confident in his own way, telegraphing that confidence.
This run took a short time. No alarms sounded from Comanche lookout and the horse took him downriver to that selected spot.
Joy leaped within Norgren as they clambered out of the water on a dirt banking, which signaled to him that erosion and normal diversion of rain had brought soil and gravel down onto the bank. He tied Jeremiah off on a rock and set out to explore the break. Halfway up a somewhat difficult climb, but not one to deter Jeremiah’s efforts, he found a cave so huge it stunned him. And the wind whistled through the cave like a fan working on the inside. With further exploration came further exultation, so he retraced his steps. Jeremiah, with Norgren leading him, made the difficult climb to the cave mouth. Once there, he let the animal rest, rubbed him down, spoke soft words again, ran his hands through the horse’s mane, loved him as any man ever loved his horse.
It was a cakewalk to the other end, though there were many obstacles in the way, but none like a near endless and powerful river flow. The pair, Norgren mounted, exited the other end of the cave to a view of miles of grass, and a wagon train already settled for the night it a huge circle. Evening shadows made each wagon darker and bigger than reality, and the grouped animals too. A half dozen fires, somewhat scattered evenly between the wagons, were burning and casting off aromas that caught at Norgren. Jeremiah reacted to the scents too. He counted 22 wagons, almost an armada in that part of the world.
After carefully descending the mount they were on, through a rough passage and a line of trees on the lower side, they were challenged by a wagon scout. “Where you from, mister? What’s your business here? Have you seen any Indians?”
“I just came down The Canadian, me and my horse.” He patted Jeremiah, spoke softly to him, and rubbed his neck so that the scout nodded his belief of man and horse as a pair. Jeremiah nickered his okay.
“My name’s Ken Norgren, this is my Jeremiah, and we just got away from about a dozen Comanche in a three-day flight, most of it on the river.”
“Down the river, just the two of you? You and the horse and no raft or ferry craft? Just you and the horse?”
The scout, tanned face, blond locks under his hat as though the sun was peeking through, eyes bright as gun sights, a tempered young man with his hand once near a ready move, nodded his head, half in disbelief and half in admiration, and then relaxed his gun hand. “That animal most needs some feed right now, don’t he? I’ll take care of it and let you meet the wagon boss. His name’s Hugo Lotterbach, once in a German army, tough as cactus hide but been this way six trips. Makes him special. My name’s Ray Buckless. I’m from Two Feathers, Oklahoma and bound for California.”
Buckless shrugged his shoulders and said, “We got this far, ain’t we?”
He held out his gun hand to shake with Norgren, still nodding his head in admiration, as if he also had been on the Canadian or another river in a similar situation.
Lotterbach was as stern looking as an old ramrod, but flashed the whitest teeth Norgren had seen for a long time. That smile was after Norgren told him about the Comanches and the river. “We killed two a few days back. Three days exactly, and back 40 miles or so when they tried to run off some of our horses. I think there must have been 20 of them in the party to start with. We know we got two of them, maybe more. Think they might have been the same party made you swim?”
“I’d say yes to that,” Norgren offered. “I counted a dozen on the run. Might have had a few hunters out, but sounds like them. The leader of the pack’s loaded with hawk features, tight cheekbones riding high under his eyes, them eyes like rifle bores that stare with hatred, and a nose like a new ax. I bet you’ve seen such men in your life.” He vaguely pictured the man in mortal combat.
Lotterbach came right back. “By the High and Mighty One, that’s the fellow I saw. Mean as any Prussian guard. You carried off your escape with ability and pride. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. You need a job?”
“No,” was Norgren reply, “I have an appointment with Firemouth. That’s the name some other Indians called him. Names are special with me and I’m making it a point to meet this gent face to face.”
The stiff German nodded, as though he had filled in all the spaces that had been left unsaid.
Norgren, bounden of his promise, was off on his own in the morning, both Jeremiah and himself fully refreshed, charged up for another trek of the journey.
**
Two days later, in the cool air of mountain morning, a secure cave bed behind him and good shelter for Jeremiah, Norgren felt the early sun on the back of his neck, the air sweet, promise riding the saddle with him because he had seen some track he explicitly remembered, came the warning that his daily openness had lured a tracker onto his own trail, and was now behind him.
“We have company, Jeremiah, doing what we ought do ourselves. We know this ground as good as him, I’m sure, so we use it.”
He recounted yesterday’s journey, practically by the foot, the pass, the defilade, the schisms abounding around them, and plainly saw where this open track had set him up. And he pictured the route ahead of him. He believed it also would provide a similar set-up; provide an unseen double-back, or circular route to come back to the same point on the trail. The cave he’d been in before was high and lonely and, had a deep recess to an exit. It was slim and he alone could make it.
Using his hat, he emptied one canteen into it where he had placed it between rocks, and looped Jeremiah’s rein under a stone. It would be enough to deter his movements, or allow escape from a predator, and respond to his whistle if necessary.
He patted Jeremiah’s flank, hugged his muscled neck, and said, “You be comfortable, boy, and come if I whistle. If I need you.”
Then he went to the rear exit of the cave, a tightly twisting passage between walls often damp with moisture. It took him more than an hour to move back near the trail he had departed. In the rays of the sun glancing of rock walls, he hid behind a natural wall of fallen stones and one gigantic slab of rock almost 15 feet high and wide as a pair of oxen.
His tracker was obviously silent, moving with great skill along the trail, his horse an extension of his care.
The mixed odor of man and animal came to Norgren on one breath of air, as if he had a sentinel at work on silent watch. He felt he might have been situated outside a livery door and caught the interior draft. He tried to picture the individual in pursuit of him, seeing him only for brief seconds on a cautious horse, paying attention to every loose rock, the cry of any bird, a scout of scouts at work. But the image of Firemouth came consistently upon him until he finally knew who his pursuer was.
There was no denying it; nor did fate play games with him and his pursuer, his prey, the two of them in a vicious circle of ability, leaning, experience, and attitude.
Otherwise, all of it, the known parts, came from Blue Cloud. She had told him when he was younger that one Indian in her tribe, a hawk-like creature and mean as cornered creature had been gifted with the promise of her as his bride if she was able to survive a month on her own, out on her own, at her own wiles.
What it really meant was she had to prove herself to a man she did not love, and so she went elsewhere when she found a reason for escape.
“It was you, Little Yell, when I heard your cry. I knew I was bound to go on a different mission. And he was the cruelest man in the tribe. I had seen it. They called him Firemouth, a man who spoke any way he wanted to any man in the tribe, a troublemaker from the start, but I found you. I would have died with him. He came pursuing me, but for years I was able to elude him. Firemouth. And you were called on the instant by me, ‘Little Yell.’”
Norgren realized that Firemouth was as much a moniker as a prophecy.
The hoof beat coming suddenly audible to the hidden Norgren, was a single one, like a tap on a doorsill, a soft and secret approach, but an announcement none the less. Norgren heard it as sure as a pebble in Jeremiah’s shoe; there was a reaction called for.
Norgren, after hearing the passage of a horse, though he lay hidden, stepped out of the trail and called out the name, not the one he had used, but the one Blue Cloud had iterated, “Firemouth!”
He said it loudly, his voice in a natural deepness as though he was hidden in the rock surfaces abounding about them. “Firemouth!” he said as firmly as he could. “I heard all about you from Blue Cloud years ago, and how much she never wanted to marry you. She’d rather take care of a lost baby she found on the prairie than marry you, Firemouth. She hated you and loved me. She became my mother.”
Norgren was sitting tall in his saddle and waiting the reaction from Firemouth.
The Indian spun around, startled at first, and then switched into a sly smile. The features of the Indian were much sharper to Norgren this time. The ax of hatred sat in his face, but he was not flustered at being surprised at his own game, though Norgren knew his words must have impacted the Indian who slowly turned around in the saddle and urged his horse to swing around too. His eyes were as black as evil itself and showed more hatred than Norgren had ever seen come across a person’s face. Blue Cloud had done the right thing, making her escape, hiding from him.
“You try Indian trick,” Firemouth said. “Go ahead to get behind, and then say shamed things to proud Indian. Blue Cloud was not worth it. She could not get on by herself, in the forest, on the mountain, on the wide grass.” He snickered, tossing off a disdainful noise from his throat. “Now Indians with me will teach you more Indian tricks.”
Norgren saw through his proud and false bravado and replied, “You are trying tricks again. You are not many this time to kill women and children. You are alone to face one man who despises what you do, how you live different from good Indians. You are alone to face one man who is going to kill you for what you have done.” His hand was ready to draw the trusty Colt. He stared at Firemouth, as if he were daring him to make the first move.
The long journey, the chases and trail hunts in the endless tracking of one man, the continual rush of memories set for him by Blue Cloud that now mobilized him and made way for his abilities, was over in an instant … all the memories, all the horrible and ungodly sights seen along the way, which might hang on forever in his mind, proved dispersible.
When Firemouth raised his rifle to shoot Norgren, the horse under him shifted with the move, the shot went wide and loud beside Norgren, but the Colt of Blue Cloud’s son was truer, for the great horse Jeremiah did not budge an inch at the two-way commotion.
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