Stringer and the Lost Tribe
STRINGER AND THE LOST TRIBE
STRINGER SERIES #9
LOU CAMERON
STRINGER AND THE LOST TRIBE
Copyright © 1988 by Lou Cameron.
First ebook edition copyright 2012 AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.
Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-156-9
Library ISBN 978-0-7927-9074-7
Cover photo © iStockPhoto/dmathies
STRINGER AND THE LOST TRIBE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MORE EBOOKS BY LOU CAMERON
CHAPTER ONE
Grandmother Hitaga felt sure she could go no further. The sharp teeth of more than fifty winters had gnawed the strength from her bones, and the saltu bullet in her back did nothing to make her feel any stronger.
High above, her star sisters danced in the same familiar way, but nightfall had caught up with her amid hills her band had not walked before, and this was frightening, frightening, for who could say the names of the people, or ghosts, who lived this far from the Valley of Many-Colored Rocks?
The Mechi-Kuhi said it was a good thing to find a nice place to sit down and sing your death chant when you were feeling too weak to go on living. For should the spirits find a body simply sprawled among the ferns, they might mistake it for a dead animal and not gather its ghost at all. It felt bad enough to be lost in the dark as a person; she didn’t want to be lost in these strange surroundings as a ghost. But still she staggered on through the oak and chaparral, even as she wondered, dully, why she still seemed to be on her feet.
Then, as she rested a moment against the friendly smoothness of a madrone sapling, she knew. For the night breeze was bringing her the sound of distant drumming. It had to be a spirit drum she was hearing. It had been a long time since real people had dared to make so much noise among these hills. But she had no other place to go that wasn’t dark and empty. So she let go of the sapling with a word of thanks for its help and staggered in that direction, thinking that at least she would save the Death Spirit the trouble of looking for the place she fell.
Many painful steps later, Grandmother Hitaga could hear the voice of the drummer as well. His words were good to hear. They were in her own language, and the spirit sang with the voice of a man, chanting over and over again: for a thing that was good to hear should be sung many times, and only a restless spirit might ask why a singer didn’t stop saying he was going to hunt a lot of deer and just go do so.
Grandmother Hitaga pressed onward until she saw the glow of a small fire through the trees. It looked warm, and now that the sun stayed up a shorter time each day, the mountain nights were getting colder. The weary, wounded woman could not think of the dangers lurking near so many night fires. She was ready to die now, as long as she could warm up a little before her big sleep.
And so, a few minutes later, as Grandfather Tetna chanted his dream song in the entrance of his bark wowi, something made him glance up from the glowing embers of his fire, and his voice was silenced by the coldness he felt in his throat. For the figure he saw between two trees at the far edges of the firelight did not seem that of a real woman. She was wearing a robe of woven rabbit-fur strips, the kind of clothing his own grandmother had made when he was a boy—the kind of robe no real woman bothered to make anymore. The old man tapped the drum on his knees, and softly called out, “Hear me, Spirit. If you are my grandmother’s ghost I welcome you, and if ghosts eat, I have some acorn mush I can heat up for you. But if you are an evil mechi, go away! and don’t come back!”
Grandmother Hitaga sobbed. And then she closed her eyes and fell down.
After she had run like a deer for many moons, with the saltu, the mechi, and other bad things chasing her, Grandmother Hitaga opened her eyes again to see she was inside the wowi with the old man, who wore saltu clothing and had one of those saltu grease lamps burning brightly. She lay naked on a pile of itchy saltu blankets, with another thrown over her. Someone had tied a cool wet wad of healing herbs against the bullet wound in her back.
The old man, who must have done this, cleared his throat and said, “The bullet was stopped by your shoulder blade. I did not think I should wait until you woke up for permission to dig it out. You had lost much blood. Your robe was sticky with it, and I am sorry to say I tore some strips getting you out of it. But I have many blankets, and you can have one to wear as soon as you feel better. I have a pot of mush and fresh sticks on the fire out front. I am called Tetna. I used to be a great warrior, but now I am just an old man, as you can see. I camp up here to be alone during the harvest moon. The younger men and even some of the women have gone down to Fat Valley to gather a grass they call barley for the saltu. They are given presents for doing this. I tried it once. I did not like it. The work in the fields was hard enough, but after dark everyone got drunk and fought half the night. It is better up here among my friends the oaks. When the harvest in Fat Valley is over, my grandsons bring me some of the good things the saltu make, anyway.”
The wounded woman stared up at him. “Your band is on good terms with the saltu? How is this possible?”
To which the more assimilated Indian could only reply, “I am not sure. But it seems to be so. Long ago we fought them. Most of us were shot down with those bang-sticks, of course, and they hung our Majapah from an oak branch until he died. But then a less cruel saltu told us he was our agent. I am not sure what that means, but it seemed to be a good thing to have. The agent seldom bothers us, and since we have had him the other saltu only call us damned diggers and hit us once in a while. The agent won’t let them shoot us with their bang-sticks anymore. But I see someone shot you not long ago. Don’t you have an agent?”
Grandmother Hitaga shook her head sadly. “My band has always tried to avoid saltu, good or bad. Like your band, we had trouble with them when they came into our world to search for that yellow dust that settles along so many streambeds. Our wise Majapa led us to the Valley of Many-Colored Rocks, where there has never been any yellow dust. Now and then a saltu did wander through our gathering grounds. But it was easier to hide among the ferns than to fight him until he had dipped his pan here and there or broken off some bits of rock to take away with him and never come back.”
Grandfather Tetna nodded in approval. “That was a good way to deal with them. I wish we had thought of it. The saltu can be very cruel when you fight them. But how did you get shot if you were having no big trouble with the sickly pale creatures?”
The old woman sighed. “Trouble came to us just a few moons ago. Many saltu came to our valley to dig for things they valued. There has never been any yellow dust there, but they keep digging anyway. They must have a bad spirit driving them. They dig like moles for a red rock that is only good for making medicine paint. They even dig up the bones of our long-dead and put them in siwinni boxes. They build bigger boxes to live in, even if it is where someone has always dug bulbs or gathered acorns. They are evil. When some of us tried to make them stop spoiling our gathering grounds, the saltu yelled a lot and struck them down. When our young men could take no more of their rudeness there was a big fight.”
Grandfather Tetna didn’t ask who’d won. He asked cautiously, “Do the women of your band join the men in such matters?”
She shook her head. “We didn’t have to. After the bone-stealing saltu beat our young men in battle they went after everyone. I was hiding among the ferns with some other women and many children when some salt
u came riding those four-footers of theirs and started shooting at us. I don’t know how many of the others got away. I almost got away unharmed. But then, as I ran through the trees, something hard as a rock and hot as fire hit me, and as soon as I feel stronger I must run some more, I think.”
The old man hunkered over her and shook his head. “Just lie still. Nobody will shoot at you here. They call the hills around here a reservation. Nobody but us may hunt or gather around here without asking the agent-saltu if he will let them. Hear me. If the agent asks about you I will tell him you are one of us. Maybe I will tell him you are my marimee. Do you think that would distress you?”
Grandmother Hitaga smiled in a way she had not smiled at any man for some time. “Before I make love to any old man, even a good-hearted one, I must do something about those evil saltu and anyone among my old band who may still be alive. I feel sorrow in my heart when I think of strangers digging up my ancestors’ bones. I am old. I am only a woman. But I have to do something to those saltu who came to spoil the gathering grounds of my people. You are a man, Tetna. If you really like me as much as you say, you should be thinking of a way to help me.”
The old man felt a stirring of pride he had not felt in many a summer. For Hitaga was pretty, even if her hair was a little gray in places. He said, “I have been thinking, ever since I dressed your wound without that blanket over you. It is a bad thing to shoot a woman. Even some saltu say this. I think we should send for my grandson, Joseph. His mother named him that because she follows the medicine of the Jesus Ghost. He has not been brought up in the true way, but he has a good heart.”
The wounded woman brightened. “If your grandson knows saltu ways, he might be good at fighting them.
Do you think he will help us drive those crazy saltu from the gathering grounds of my band?”
Grandfather Tetna replied soberly, “Not by himself. The boy is barely a real person, let alone an initiated warrior. But he has saltu friends. Hear me. This is possible, as crazy as it may sound to you. One time my grandson rode with the blue-sleeves in the faraway fight the saltu had with the Spanish band. He often boasts of a saltu friend he made in a place called Cuba when they saved each other’s lives in a bad fight they were having. Joseph used to call his saltu friend MacKail. Lately it has been changed to Stringer for medicine reasons, I think. Joseph says his good friend Stringer makes little black medicine marks for all the other saltu to read. I don’t know how they do that. But Joseph does, and he says Stringer always makes his little black marks tell the truth.”
Grandmother Hitaga looked dubious and muttered, “I did not know any saltu could tell the truth.” But the old man hushed her and insisted, “My grandson is not saltu. So he could hardly be lying when he says he would trust Stringer with his life. I think Joseph should go find Stringer for us. If Stringer tells all the other saltu that bad saltu have been digging dead people up and shooting at live women, some agent may read it, and nobody but an agent can drive saltu from the gathering grounds of real people.”
Grandmother Hitaga remained dubious. “What if this saltu friend of your grandson refuses to help us? Why should any saltu help us at the risk of his own life? Those crazy ones who shot me are very ferocious, you know.”
Grandfather Tetna shrugged. “It is worth a try. Someone has to help us, and my grandson says that in Cuba his friend Stringer was very ferocious too.”
And so, less than a week later, Stuart MacKail of the San Francisco Sun was typing up a rewrite in his furnished room on Rincon Hill when an almost naked lady walked in on him without bothering to knock. An open kimono was some improvement on her usual state of dishabille. For the gal on the second landing worked nights as an artist’s model at the California School of Fine Arts and seemed to feel there was no great reason to change from her work clothes as she lounged about at home.
It seemed almost as rude to go on typing as it did to look at her. So MacKail fixed his eyes on the envelope in her hand as he got politely to his feet and asked if there was something he could do for her.
The Gibson Girl in the open kimono cast a wistful glance at the brass bedstead against the far wall but answered, “The mailman just left this downstairs, special delivery. I know your last name is MacKail. But what kind of a first name might Stringer be?”
The man the urgent letter had been sent to held his hand out for it as he explained, “Stringer is my nickname. It’s too involved and unfunny to explain to anyone outside the newspaper game. Uh… don’t you usually leave for work about this time every afternoon?”
As he tore the envelope open she cast another wistful glance at the bed and replied, “I do, damn it. The landlady is out, and none of the other boarders have come home from work yet. But c’est la goddamn vie, as we artistic types say.”
He didn’t answer. He was scanning the block-lettered message from his old war comrade, Joe Malliwah.
She wafted closer to his bed as she murmured, “I don’t think they’d really fire me if I turned up a little late. How do you feel about shutting your door and making sure it’s locked?”
He gulped and answered, “I’d be fibbing if I said the thought never crossed my mind, ma’am. But right now I have to get over to my office, pronto, before my feature editor can light out for the weekend. This news tip is too hot to sleep on.”
She insisted she had to be at least as hot as any old special delivery letter, damn it. But Stringer had already scooped up his hat and coat and was dashing out the door and down the winding stairs as she flung maledictions about his manhood after him. They were hardly fair, but a man who messed with such tempting stuff where he boarded or worked was asking for more trouble than even a great lay could be worth, even when he didn’t have more important matters to attend to. So by the time he’d made it out the front door and swung downslope to the north he had the temptation to turn back under control, and by the time he’d crossed Market Street, dodging trolley cars and horseless carriages, his hard-on had subsided entirely.
The rush-hour foot traffic bucked him all the way to the cast-iron facade of the Sun, and he had to bull his way in against the torrent of stenographers and such on their way out of the building. But the San Francisco Sun never set, as the old saw went, and so, as he’d hoped, old Sam Barca was working late, as usual, in the little frosted-glass box they kept him in lest he shock female staffers of the newsroom with his pungent Parodi cigars and muleskinner’s comments on the lousy ways of the new twentieth century. Old Sam had started out sticking type at a time when they hadn’t allowed women to enter a saloon, board a clipper ship, or—damnit—work anywhere near a newspaper.
But this evening, as Stringer dragged a bentwood chair after him into Barca’s comer cage, the bald old bastard actually looked cheerful. He smiled up from behind his cluttered desk. “I was just about to send a printer’s devil to fetch you, MacKail. Have I got a feature assignment for you!”
Stringer swung the chair around to sit down, cowhand style, as he waved the envelope in one hand like a quirt and replied, “I was just about to say the same thing. But you go first, Sam.”
“It just came over the service wire from up north,” Barca said. “I can’t believe it. I thought we’d seen the last of such doings at Wounded Knee. But here we are in a new century and we’ve got us an Indian war to cover.”
Stringer said dryly, “I’d hardly call Wounded Knee a war, and might we be talking about some troubles up near Mount Lassen?”
Barca scowled. “Who told you? It just came in. A mining outfit operating in hitherto uncharted country has been trying to keep a lid on the troubles they’ve been having with some unreconstructed Digger Indians. But it’s gotten to be more than their company police can cope with, and now they’ve asked the Army for the usual help.”
Barca took a thoughtful drag on his evil-smelling cigar before he added, “Having covered such matters as the Modoc war in my misspent youth, I imagine most of the fighting should be over by the time you can get up there. But you oug
ht to be able to get the makings of a nice Sunday feature from the locals up that way. With any luck there ought to be some human-interest obits. So far the Diggers have arrowed at least four mining men and scared the shit out of a lot more.”
Stringer took out the makings of a defensive smoke. “Back up, Sam. I was just about to say I wanted to cover the story. But for openers, the Indians we’re talking about ain’t exactly Diggers, and they tell the story a different way.”
He tossed the letter from Joe Malliwah halfway across the desk and began to fill his cigarette paper with Bull Durham as he explained, “Joe Malliwah is an Indian cowhand I met up with in Cuba, during the war with Spain. He was serving with the Rough Riders, and one night, when we came under Spanish sniper fire, I was sure glad he was on our side. He allowed his folk were Yana and that he’d been bom on a reservation, but he gave up such notions once he saw how much fun it was to play cowboy instead of Indian. As you’ll see when you get around to reading his letter, Joe has some less assimilated kin living higher up in the hills. He’s not sure why they want to go on eating acorns and manzanita, either. But Joe says that’s all they were doing when some saltu, as they call us, invaded their secluded glen and started to bust things up. Joe allows an arrow or more had been pegged at the mining men, but he insists they started the trouble, and, so far, Joe Malliwah has never lied to me or anyone I know of.”
Sam Barca shrugged. “I told you I covered many an Indian war when I was as young and idealistic as you, MacKail. But ours not to reason why, and how many Indians buy the San Francisco Sun? You know I’ll let you turn in the truth, and, hell, we’ll even run it, if it’s a good story. Just don’t let the truth get in the way of a good feature. There’s no news in a mining camp tough screwing a begging squaw and getting beat up or worse by her buck. I want you to make it sound like the Great Sioux Uprising, even if you have to make up some feathers and pad the casualties a mite. Our readers could use some safe excitement, now that they’re surrounded by street lamps and damn fool regulations against wearing guns to town on a Saturday night. If your old Army pal is right and the peacetime Army behaves as dumb as usual, we might just get a stirring account of campaigning in the wilderness after Indians that might not be there. Remember Chief Joseph and Captain Jack?”