Some Time Later

Fall was starting to set in on the Texas prairie, but the sun seemed to be fighting to hold on to summer for as long as possible. Wasápe felt its full brunt on his bare head and was beginning to see the logic the white men had in their wide-brimmed hats. However, after 16 months quarrying rock and laying rail road track, Wasápe had his fill of white men and their big hats. Ostracized for his long hair and refusal to give up his Comanche name, he soon became number one on the list of both guards and inmates. However, though it didn't take long for his fellow prisoners to realize they would be better off leaving him alone, the guards were another matter. Many were not much better men than those serving time; however, they could bully others and get away with it. Wasápe knew this first hand. Even if he was merely defending himself he would get long stretches in the hole or hotbox. It wasn't as if he was asking for trouble; he got into it just for being alive.

He sighed hugely. It was all over now. He had his papers, though he couldn't read them. They proclaimed him a free man and that though he looked Comanche, he was indeed white and could roam as he pleased. The warden had sternly said, "We'll miss that strong back of yours, boy, but we won't miss that attitude. You need to figure out what you are and soon. Get out of here and don't ever give a reason for anybody to put you back here, understand?"

Even with the papers proclaiming him to be his own master, Wasápe felt as though the shackles around his ankles were still there, rubbing the skin until there was nothing but a big bloody mess. His wrists would take time to heal as well; they had not faired any better. He scratched at the scabs, wincing when one tore off, releasing a clear liquid. The wounds were probably infected. He knew he should try and find a river with a nice muddy bottom so he could make a poultice.

Kicking his mustang's flanks, he continued across the open prairie. Much to his pleasure, he had not encountered a single human being in over a week. The last he had seen was the final guard who handed him the rope that was tethered around the buckskin's neck. Apparently the warden had felt sorry for him and expressed this pity by giving Wasápe the half-broke, half-starved Cayuse. Initially Wasápe was rather put-off by the gesture, but after a few days the horse and he had made an uneasy truce, and Wasápe realized that this horse really wasn't too bad. He was actually only a little past colt-hood and was on his way to being a good size. It was hard to tell since he had been living off of skimpy desert grass and bad water. Wasápe hoped he fattened up soon, for he wasn't sure how much more of the horse's protruding spine digging into tender places he could take. Again, he could see another useful white-man invention; anything between him and this torture rack would be welcome, even a cavalry saddle.

Buck, as Wasápe has been calling him since he couldn't think of anything better, seemed to perk up unexpectedly, his ears turning in all directions and his head coming erect. Wasápe stopped him before easing to the ground carefully to place a hand over the mustang's nose to prevent him from making a sound. His dark eyes roved across the sweeping grass but with the wind blowing, it was difficult to hear anything. Nothing out of the ordinary…wait, what was that? At the brink of a hill, Wasápe could just make out a spot of color amongst the drab sandy colors of the prairie. Buck's gaze was fixed on it as well, a sure sign that this was what was bothering the animal.

After staring for what seemed to be an eternity, Wasápe decided that whatever was over there must either be inanimate or dead, for it had not moved an inch. He jumped up on the buckskin's back, wincing as healing wounds pulled against new skin. The mustang eased forward slowly, his head swinging back and forth, great snorts of breath enlarging his nostrils. Trusting his horse's instincts, Wasápe let him pick his own pace while at the same time fingering the handle of his knife. He was roughly 30 yards away when suddenly, an arm in a blue sleeve shot straight up in the air and a hoarse, weak voice called out, "Help, oh help!"

Buck jumped up on his hind legs slightly, but to his credit, did not bolt. Wasápe held on with a little bit of difficulty, and as soon as the horse's four feet were on the ground, he jumped down, one hand holding the rope and the other, his knife. Leading the horse, he crept forward. Glancing back at his mount, he noticed that Buck had calmed considerably, so Wasápe dropped the rope on the ground, pleased when the horse dropped his head to graze. At least he didn't have to worry about dragging him around to deal with…whatever was going on up ahead. Turning his eyes forward, he looked at the figure sprawled on his stomach. The man was wearing a blue shirt, black vest, dark pants and no gun. A black, flat-brimmed hat lay on the ground nearby. Wasápe squatted at a safe distance, watching, waiting. Had the man just spent his last bit of strength on that plea? He had not moved an inch since having done so.

Spying a tall seeding clump of Indian grass, Wasápe snapped off one stalk at the base. Scooting a little closer, he held out the feathery end until it just brushed the back of the prone man's neck. His skin twitched, confirming that he was still alive. Wasápe ran it over the man's neck again, a bit harder, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard…giggling? "Hee hee, stop that, Colette…."

Wasápe rose into a high crouch, head pivoting. Was there another person out here? Seeing no one, he concluded that the man was out of his head and was imagining he was somewhere else. He shuffled a bit closer before poking the man's ear with the pointy end of the stalk, who spoke again. "Ow, honey. Really, that's no way to act."

Wasápe had enough of being gentle. He reached out one hand and flipped the man over onto his back. That silly chortle bubbled out of his lips again, but this time it went to the edge of being hysterical. Wasápe grimaced at the sight of the man's face: burned and cracked, there was no question that this poor man had been out here for days without respite from the glaring orb above. Wasápe started to reach for the canteen tied to his belt when the man started to move. His arms roved listlessly at his sides as if feeling for something. When one hand collided with Wasápe's knee, he grabbed it reflexively. He jerked in surprise when the man's other hand came over to grab onto their already joined ones. "Colette, mon amour, Je vous ai manqué." Wasápe watched in amazement as the man stroked the back of the captured hand, tenderly. He tried to retract his hand, but despite the man's condition, his strength was powerful. The man's hand was working its way up Wasápe's arm, pulling, until Wasápe had no choice but to lean forward. His braids swung out freely, dangling over the man's face. The hand found one and latched on. "Your hair is a soft as I remembered, darling."

Wasápe snorted loudly at this. As amusing as this was, he really didn't want it to go any further. He slapped gently at the man's face. Red lids fluttered open, revealing blood-shot eyes. "Why, Colette, really…." Suddenly the man became lucid. He started to flop about like a fish on dry land. "You're a…a…AAAAH!" He held his hands defensively over his face. "Please, please, don't scalp me!"

Wasápe rolled his eyes. These foolish tejanos…well, this one might not be from Texas, actually. His voice had a different sound. When he reached to his waist for the canteen, the crazy person started to raise his fists and strike out. The larger man effortlessly caught a flying hand by the wrist. The man gasped in terror and went completely stiff before wilting in relief when Wasápe pressed the small canteen into his hand. "You're…not going to kill me?"

"Only help," Wasápe grunted. He watched as these words seemed to sink in, for before one drop of water could pass through those chapped lips, the man slumped. It appeared the relief of rescue was too much to stay awake for. Just the same, Wasápe poured a little water into the man's mouth, which was reflexively swallowed.

Leaning back on his heels, Wasápe shook the canteen next to his ear. It was about half full. The last thing he needed was some sun-sick white boy on his hands, but the memory of his adopted family had been in his mind for days. Ma-Ellen would want him to see that this fool got help.

He groaned. Riding the bony horse bareback wasn't enjoyable, but he liked walking less. Well, maybe this dude would learn his lesson by getting sawed in half by Buck's backbone. He tied his canteen back to his belt and put his knife in its sheath. Rolling his broad shoulders to limber up, he considered the man's slender frame. He'd lifted small rocks that weighed more than this greenhorn.

He pulled the limp body up until the man was propped up on his own feet before ducking into the man's waist. When Wasápe straightened, the man's feet were sticking out horizontally, enabling him to put him belly down across the mustang's back. The unconscious man face bounced against Buck's ribs, causing the horse to reach back and nip at a dangling arm. Wasápe smirked and grabbed the lead rope, pulling Buck forward. He was glad to see that the white man was staying aboard. Lifting that scrawny frame had pulled at some healing skin, and now he could feel a few warm spots seeping through the back of his shirt.

His eyes were pulled down when his moccasin-clad foot kicked something. The dude's black hat skittered ahead across the top of the grass, spooking Buck. Wasápe grabbed it up, looking it over. Inside the hat were some words scratched into the leather band. Even though he had re-mastered English during his time with the family, he hadn't really recovered any memories concerning the written side of the language. The family hadn't been much on literacy themselves, so he was stuck as an ignorant for the time being.

Since he had yet to give up his Comanche name and those at the prison were too ignorant to pronounce it correctly, on arrival to the prison he had immediately been dubbed "Comanche." So, on his clothing next to his identification number where his initials should have been was a simple "C". It was one of the few letters Wasápe knew; therefore, when he saw the writing in the hat, "c" was the only letter he recognized. The words were probably the man's name, and if this were the case, then the man's initials were "C.C."

Wasápe shrugged. He didn't really care what the man's name was. If he died, C.C. could go on the marker if wood could be found for one.

Wasápe started to walk again before realizing that he really didn't know which way he was going. He had intended to just head straight south from Huntsville—he'd always wanted to see the big expanses of water inmates talked about—but his Comanche ties were pulling him west as well. As near as he could tell, he was somewhere between the prison and the Mexico border. He did a sweep with his eyes and noticed what appeared to be the direction the loco man had come from judging from smashed grass and other markings. The man probably didn't have the slightest notion where he was going, so Wasápe decided that he'd just take the man along wherever he decided to go. Looking at his shadow for the angle of the sun, he started striding along, covering ground efficiently. Somewhere along the way, that black hat wound up on his head. Couldn't hurt anything to store it up there, could it? Keep his hands free….