Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04 by Quanah Parker Page B

thought, they might be unnoticed as long as no one directed attention their way. They’d be safer than trying to shoot it out.
    “What do you figure they want, Pop?” Benjamin asked.
    Elder Parker shook his head. “Can’t be sure, son. I suppose they want a little food or something, like the others. I wish I knew enough oftheir lingo to talk to them. I can’t even tell what kind they are.”
    “They’re Indians,” Granny snapped. “That’s all you need to know. Come inside and close the gate, Benjamin.”
    “They’re why we come here,” Elder John corrected her. “How can we bring them the Lord, if we turn them away when they come calling?”
    “I think maybe it would be best if we went inside and closed the gate,” Granny suggested again. “They can receive the Lord another day.”
    “That would be unfriendly,” Elder John said. “Not to mention shirking our responsibility.”
    “I’m not feeling any too friendly,” Granny said. “And I don’t much know what our responsibility to heathens is.”
    “Maybe if I go on out there, I can find out what they want,” Benjamin said. “They’re carryin’ a white flag, so they must have had some contact with white men before. They must know what it means.”
    “Knowing what it means and doing what it says are two different things, Benjamin,” Granny said. “Don’t you go out there.”
    “The boy’s right, Granny,” Elder John argued. “You go on ahead, Ben, but be careful. The first sign of trouble, you scoot on back here.”
    “You’d best take your gun, Ben,” Granny added.
    “No, that’ll just give them the wrong idea.”
    “You go ahead and take your gun. Most likely they have their own weapons. I’d feel better.”
    Reluctantly, Ben snatched at the musket and started slowly away from the fort. As he approached the Indians, they seemed to be whispering among themselves, the ponies shifting nervously beneath them. Ben could hear the snuffle of the ponies, and the swish of their tails as he closed the gap. He was conscious of the rustle of tall grass against his clothes and tried to ignore it as he listened intently.
    The Indians started forward then, and he realized that something was amiss. It didn’t dawn on him right away. But when all three of the warriors were arrayed in a row twenty yards away, it struck him—despite the white flag, they were wearing war paint, red and yellow bands that arced across their cheeks and bridged the broad, flat noses, and gave them a malevolent appearance, despite the fact that they were grinning at him.
    “Howdy,” Ben said, not expecting an answer. He shifted the musket nervously from hand to hand, then curled his finger through the trigger guard. He thought about cocking the hammer, but decided it might be too provocative a move.
    The warriors moved into a circle around him then. Suddenly, the white flag fell to the dirt and the warriors started prodding him with their lances, counting coup, which Ben knew was one method of attaining honor among their people. The jabs of the lances got more forceful, and Ben adjusted his grip on the musket. He wanted to say something to them, distract themfrom the game, if it was a game, but the language barrier was unbridgeable.
    Unconsciously, he moved his thumb to the hammer and started to cock it. Abruptly, one of the lances was raised high overhead and stabbed down in a vicious arc before he could do anything to protect himself. He lost his grip on the musket, and realized that his forearm had been cut by the sharp point of the lance.
    He turned and tried to break out of the circle, looking back at the fort and its open gate that now seemed so far away. More prods with the lances, sharper and harder, and he fell to his knees. Something struck him in the shoulder and he felt the sharp thrust of the lance as it pierced his chest and struck bone. He was driven over backward. He saw the gates starting to close, his mother standing there with her hands to her