He had warned Tarrant to expect this kind of outcome. Therefore Tarrant looked straight at Quanah and said, “I can make a better offer. We have rifles with us, boxes full of cartridges, things you need as you need horses if you are to wage war. How much, for those poor lives?”
Herrera took a step forward. “No, wait,” he called.
Quanah forestalled him. “Are these in your baggage? If so, good. If not, you are too late. Your companion has already agreed to trade his for cattle.”
Tarrant stood moveless. Wahaawmaw, who must have gotten the gist, crowed at him. “I could have told you,” Herrera said through the rising crowd-noise.
Quanah brought that down while Peregrino breathed in Tarrant’s ear, “I will see whether I can talk them into changing the deal. Keep your hopes on a tight rein, though.”
He launched into oratory. His fellows responded likewise. For the most part they spoke soberly. The effort always was to reach a consensus. They had no government. Civil chiefs were little more than judges, mediators, and even war chiefs only commanded in battle. Quanah waited out the debate. Toward the end, Herrera had something to say. Soon after that, Quanah pronounced what he took to be the verdict, and assent passed among his followers like an ebb-tide wave. The sun stood low. Wahaawmaw cast Tarrant a triumphant glare.
Sadness dulled Peregrino’s English. “You have guessed, no? It did not work. They have not gotten much blood yet, and are thirsty for it. Wahaawmaw claimed it would be bad luck to give quarter, and quite a few were ready to believe that. They can spare the half a dozen to round up this ranch’s herd and bring it to New Mexico. They enjoy that trip. And the Comanchero told them he is not a man to pull out of a bargain once it’s been struck. That made them extra touchy about their own honor. Also … Quanah didn’t argue either way, but they know he has an idea for taking the house that he would like to try, and they are curious what it may be.” He stood silent for part of a minute. “I did my best. I really did.”
“Of course,” Tarrant answered. “Thanks.”
“I want you to know I don’t like what will happen, either. Let’s ride off and not come back till morning, you and me— Rufus if he wants.”
Tarrant shook his head. “I’ve a notion I’d better stay around. Don’t worry. I’ve seen enough sacks in the past.”
“I suppose you have,” said Peregrino.
The meeting broke up. Tarrant gave Quanah his respects and walked among knots of warriors, whose looks on him ranged from sullen to gleeful, toward Herrera’s camp. It was several yards from the nearest tipi. The New Mexican found men to talk with and thus delayed himself.
His sons had a fire started. They were busy with preparations for supper, before the quick prairie dark should fall. Long sunbeams trailed through smoke. Bedrolls waited. Rufus sat idle, hunched, a bottle in his single fist.. He looked up when Tarrant approached and asked, needlessly once he had seen, “What happened?”
“No dice.” Tarrant lowered himself to the trampled grass and reached out. “I’ll take a swig of that whiskey. Not much, and you’d better watch it closer.” Its bite went beneficent down his gullet. “I’ve failed altogether. Peregrino won’t leave the Comanches, and they won’t take ransom.” Curtly he described the situation.
“That son of a bitch,” Rufus breathed.
“Who? Quanah? He may be enemy, but he’s honest.”
“No, Herrera. He could have—”
The trader glided into view. “Did I hear my name?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Rufus lurched to his feet, bottle in hand. He stayed with English, except for, “Vipera es. You snake. You greaser. You could’a—could’a—sold Hanno—sold the boss those guns an’—”
Herrera’s right hand moved toward his Colt. His sons edged left and right, not yet drawing their knives. “I could not change a bargain that had been made,” he said. Spanish was too soft a language to convey the full coldness. “Not unless they agreed, and they refused. That would have hurt my reputation, damaged my business.”