"A Work In Progress"
Chapter Thirty-Six
The scouting party paraded their captives all through the camp, finally coming to a halt in front of another chief's teepee.
The tent's rather aloof looking resident stepped out, removed a headdress from the top of the nearby spear it was attached to and placed it regally down upon his head. The old guy gave the captives a couple of 'if looks could kill, they'd be dead' stares and then motioned for them to be brought before him.
Once again, John and Roy were yanked roughly out of their saddles. The pair stumbled, as they were pushed and prodded up to the chief, and then just stood there with spear tips pressing painfully into their backs.
Finally, John mustered up the courage to clear his throat. "Uh-uh…Hi there," he greeted the Comanche big wig, sounding as amiable as circumstances would allow. "If someone will kindly free my hands, we can get on with the arrangements for the prisoner exchange."
"Forget about your hands," Roy strongly advised. "Just tell him the plan."
"I can't forget about my hands. I don't speak Comanche. I speak Sign Language. You gotta use your hands for Sign Language."
DeSoto stared at his fellow negotiator in both shock and disbelief. "It's a good thing my hands ain't free right now, or I'd strangle you!"
His partner looked extremely apologetic.
But his buddy remained really peeved with him. "If—by some ridiculous stroke of luck—we manage to make it out of this mess alive, and I am actually able to speak again, it ain't gonna be to you!"
John winced.
The chief motioned for his braves to shut the two men up.
The pair felt the spear tips press harder into their backs and directed their undivided attention back to their unhappy looking host.
The old guy glared menacingly back at them. "Nueve` guam Regali. Nueve` guam Cutar," he calmly declared. Then he pulled a knife from his belt and completely lost his cool. "Apa nashla rite` Regali y Cutar!" he screamed and pressed the tip of his knife's shiny, sharp blade up to their black-haired captive's throat. "Where pony soldiers are?!" he suddenly demanded, speaking in broken English.
John could feel the tip of the blade beginning to cut into his flesh. He swallowed hard and promptly put forth a polite request. "I…uh…really wish you wouldn't do that." The stabbing pain in his throat instantly subsided. He glanced down at the old guy's empty raised hand, and heaved a huge sigh of relief. "So-o…you speak some English. That's…great."
The chief type stared down at his empty hand…and then at the ground around his feet, looking completely stunned.
"Now," John turned to the side and held up his bound wrists, "if you'll just untie my hands, I'll tell you how you can get Regali back."
At the mention of Regali's name, the old chief started nodding—rather excitedly. "Regali! Regali!"
"Right. Regali. Regali. Just free my hands—" John was jerked back around and then held in the firm grip of two brawny braves.
The old guy pressed his mean, ugly kisser right up to their talkative hostage's unhappy face. "Where pony soldiers are?!" he impatiently repeated.
Gage was running a little low on patience, himself. He exhaled an exasperated gasp and attempted to turn sideways again. He couldn't. So he gave up on his hands and decided to use his head, instead. "You," he motioned toward the chief type with his head, "give us," he motioned to himself and his fellow negotiator, "pony soldiers. We," he motioned to the two of them again, "give you," he motioned to the old guy, "Regali."
The Comanche chief looked thoughtful.
John looked hopeful. "Pony soldiers us…Regali you."
A look of dawning understanding came over the old man. He turned to one of his warriors and shouted out an order.
The brave nodded and disappeared.
The warrior reappeared less than three minutes later, with a half a dozen other Indians—and two distinguished looking Cavalry officers.
The trade negotiators' glum faces immediately lit up.
The chief grabbed one of the officers by the arm and dragged him up to the captives. "Pony soldiers!" he declared, with a sickening smirk.
"Right! Pony soldiers come with us," John motioned with his head in their direction again. "Regali y Cutar come to you."
"Pony soldiers!" the old guy shouted and pointed off into the distance. "Regali y Cutar," he calmly added and motioned to the ground at his feet.
"Right! Right! You got it!" John grinned and turned to his partner. "He got it."
Roy responded with a roll his eyes.
The old guy immediately issued another order.
Two of the still mounted Indians hopped off their horses and led their mounts up to the old man.
The chief took a knife from one of them, stepped up behind the two Cavalry officers and sawed through the leather straps that were keeping their elbows and wrists bound.
The two officers exchanged anxious glances and began rubbing their raw wrists.
The old guy issued a final order.
The pony soldiers were—literally—thrown onto the two horses' backs.
One of the men gave Gage and DeSoto a look of undying gratitude before galloping off.
The other guy just high-tailed it out of the Comanche camp, without so much as a backward glance.
John stared after the departing officers for a few moments, feeling mixed emotions. He was glad that they had successfully accomplished the Colonel's and the Major's rescue. Yet he was hurt that they hadn't stuck around til he and Roy were ready to leave, too.
Roy saw the Comanche chief holding a huddled, muffled conference with one of the Mescalaro chiefs, and felt extremely sick to his stomach.
John noticed that his partner was suddenly looking rather ill and turned to see what he was staring at.
A new chief was standing there, staring at them like he was a cat—and they were a couple of canaries.
The old guy gave the 'cat' a sickening smirk and a nod.
"NO-O!" John exclaimed, instantly breaking into full panic mode. "We go with pony soldiers!"
The Comanche chief issued a final final set of instructions to his warriors, and then he replaced his headdress and ducked back inside his tent.
"Hey!" John shouted after him and attempted to take a step forward. But the arm-grippers kept him locked in place. "Let us go!" the dark-haired captive continued to protest, completely ignoring the spear tip that was being drilled into his bare back. "This isn't part of the deal!
Unfortunately—for them—nobody seemed to care.
"Who are these guys?" John anxiously inquired, as a half-dozen differently dressed Indians suddenly appeared before them.
"Mescalaros," Roy quietly replied.
"Mescalaros?" John numbly repeated. 'Hadn't Chet referred to them as 'butchering' types?'
The Comanche warriors obediently turned the two remaining captives over to their Mescalaro allies.
"NO-O!" Gage screamed again and struggled—with everything he had left in him—to break free from his new arm-grippers. His rapidly waning energy supply, however, was no match for the combined strength of the four brawny braves that surrounded him. The dark-haired captive tried to calm himself down, so that he could think clearly. But his wild imagination was getting the upper hand, and disturbing visions—of being 'butchered' alive—kept flooding his brain. John suddenly had the uneasy feeling that the two of them were about to find out if it was true what THEY say…about Indians and crazy people.
TBC