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As they rode on in silence, Fire Thunder became lost in thought—about how he came to be here, instead of his home in Wisconsin. He had grown tired of the white people taking land from his people. He had broken away from the other Kickapoo people and had led his own here, where he had found freedom for them in Mexico.
His request to migrate into Mexico had been granted by the Mexican Ministry of War. The permission had been given to Fire Thunder as long as he agreed to help keep marauding Comanche renegades out of Mexico, and also white men who came with their promises that they always broke.
Although the Kickapoo had to subject themselves to the laws of the land of Mexico, it was not demanded of them to change their habits and customs.
The Mexican government allowed the Kickapoo to form a loose confederacy and permitted them to establish a village where they would be free to farm their own land, and raise large herds of livestock. To the Kickapoo, this was a paradise, without the cunning white government always interfering.
Fire Thunder was called “Captain” by the Mexican leaders. He had many privileges not enjoyed by the others. He was recognized as the head of his clan by the Mexican authorities, and received a small salary from the local municipality.
In the white world, Fire Thunder would be called a cattle baron because he owned vast tracts of grazing land.
He was honored and respected by all who knew him, and feared by his enemies.
When the Rio Grande was reached, Fire Thunder’s thoughts came back to the present. He watched carefully and saw that his herd made it safely across the river, near to Eagle Pass. Thus far the Texans hadn’t suspected the Kickapoo of stealing their cattle. The Comanche renegades, who were well known for such thievery, were always blamed.
Once the foot of Fire Thunder’s mountain was reached, the herd was checked over. Fire Thunder’s blood boiled when he saw how the Texans had changed the Kickapoo brand to one of theirs that was similar.
But he placed this aside too until he reached home, and his warriors could renew their own brand on the animals over the Texans’.
The camp was readied for the night. Bathed and wearing dried buckskins, Fire Thunder and Black Hair sat away from the others, before their own campfire. They were stretched out comfortably on blankets that were spread atop chestgrass that was plush as velvet.
They each chewed on a piece of jerky and a mixture of seeds and dried fruit, while a coffeepot spurted a trailing wisp of steam heavenward.
Not far from them, some of the longhorns were grazing on high, thick, dew-wet grass. Here and there one of the animals was dust-scratching, rolling on its back like a cat in a patch of clear ground, sharp polished hooves waving in the air while it twisted.
The cool breeze was full of longhorn talk, a drawn-out tympanic rattling of throaty noises.
“My friend, you are more quiet tonight than usual,” Black Hair said. “Is it the Texans you are thinking about?” He lifted a tin cup to his mouth and slowly sipped his coffee.
“You know that all Texans opposed the presence of we Kickapoo in their country when we lived there,” Fire Thunder said sullenly. “They despised us. Some even called us marauders. They were glad when we moved into Mexican territory.”
“Yes, and the Mexicans want us to stay,” Black Hair said, setting his empty coffee cup aside. “They see us as protectors.”
“I wonder how those who only pass through Texas see us,” Fire Thunder said, casting Black Hair a quick, questioning glance.
“Is there anyone particular in mind when you wonder about such a thing as that?” Black Hair said, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “You have not ever mentioned such a worry to me before.”
“I have not had cause to wonder about it before,” Fire Thunder said, raking his long, lean fingers through his thick, black hair.
“Why do you now?” Black Hair said, straightening his back. “Or should I say who . . . brings such a question to your mind?”
“You are astute to all my thoughts, my friend,” Fire Thunder said, reaching a hand over to Black Hair, clasping it on his shoulder. “There is someone lingering in my mind tonight.”
Black Hair saw the sparkle in his friend’s blue eyes, his blue eyes supporting Fire Thunder’s claim to his mixture of French and Indian ancestry. Only a woman could cause such a look; such wonder.
“What woman, my friend?” Black Hair prodded. “Have I looked upon her, myself, with pleasure?”
“You have seen her, yes, and if you did not feel a stirring in your loins as you gazed upon her loveliness, you are not a man of passion,” Fire Thunder said, laughing softly.
“Who, Fire Thunder?” Black Hair said, leaning his face closer. “Who intrigues you so much you torment your best friend with talk of him being passionless?”
“I was only jesting,” Fire Thunder said, patting Black Hair’s shoulder. “About your being passionless, that is. There is a certain woman who fills my thoughts tonight, who makes my heart feel as though it is thumping like Kickapoo warriors are playing a million drums inside my chest.”
“Are you going to keep me guessing all night?” Black Hair said, impatience showing in the clipped tone of his voice.
“You cannot help but recall the long caravan of wagons we saw earlier in the day before we reached the Texan’s ranch from whom we stole the longhorns,” Fire Thunder said, watching the slow knowing appear in his friend’s eyes. “Being a skilled reader, I read ‘THE SHELTON FAMILY CARNIVAL’ on the side of the wagons. In one of those wagons do you not recall seeing this beautiful young woman whose black hair was as sleek as a raven’s, and whose eyes were as green and crisp as a panther’s? She was delicate and pale skinned, almost fragile and doll-like in appearance.”
“Yes, I remember her well,” Black Hair said, nodding.
