Buffalo Trail (32 page)

“Don't be hitting my friend, Shorty,” Bat said in a voice that sounded almost sober. “I think you'll go outside now and find someplace to sleep.”

“I won't forget this, Masterson,” Scheidler snarled.

“Sure you will. We all will. We've had whiskey and a woman to boot. It's been a fine night. Let's not ruin it.”

Scheidler stumbled outside. McLendon said, “Thank you, Bat,” but Masterson was already snoring. McLendon's face smarted, and blood dribbled down his chin from a split lip. He turned to where the woman lay on the gunny sacks and gestured for her to get up. She did, slowly. He picked up the dress from the floor and handed it to her. She put it on and stood looking at him, her gaze an unsettling combination of disgust and curiosity.

“Let's get you some food,” he said. He went to a shelf and took down a package of hard candies and a small loaf of bread. The bread had been
baked that morning by Old Man Keeler and was surely going stale. It wasn't much for her to eat, and he briefly considered going to the kitchen in the Rath store to see if any of Mrs. Olds's venison stew was left over. But that would take several minutes at least, and he wanted to get the woman out of camp before any of the other men came after her. She took the candy and bread from him; he noticed that she avoided touching his hand. “You should go now,” he said. “Come on.” He motioned toward the door. She moved gingerly; he thought that she must be very sore. McLendon walked beside her, not making any physical contact but guiding her between sprawled hunters and their crews where they lay sleeping on the ground. When they were clear of the buildings, on the north side of camp in the direction of the creek, McLendon said, “I'm sorry. I know that you don't understand what I'm saying, but I'm sorry. Go on, now.” He thought that she would try to get away as quickly as she could, but she stood for just a moment longer, studying him in the dim moonlight. He noticed that her right eye was swelling from Shorty Scheidler's blow. Then she whirled and he heard the soft crunching of the brush as she pushed through it toward the water.

S
oon after one of the white men pulled Mochi into one of the huts down in the meadow, two others emerged with rifles and began walking out toward the river, taking their time and sometimes even flattening themselves on the ground, dropping quickly when they did.

“These are very wise men,” Lone Wolf whispered. “They get down close to look for signs.”

Still, the four Indians were able to move about along the bluff and river and avoid the two whites, who might have been wise but were also loud, talking to each other and stepping on brittle twigs that snapped under their feet. After a while the white men went back to their camp and the Indians regrouped on top of the bluff. As they regained that vantage point, they saw Mochi being dragged into the largest hut. Her dress hung around her waist and several men pawed at her before she was thrown inside. Medicine Water, crouched behind Quanah, gasped as he saw the battered state of his wife. Quanah thought for a moment that Medicine Water might lose control and bolt down the bluff to her, but the leader of the Cheyenne dog soldiers stayed where he was, though his body trembled.

Then they waited for a long time. Some of the white men came out of
the big hut and lay down on the grass to sleep. It gradually grew quieter. Finally a white man, one of the pair who'd scouted the valley earlier, emerged, and he had Mochi with him. She carried some things in her hands. The white man walked with her toward the river, and the Indians dropped down the side of the bluff and moved that way, too, Medicine Water well ahead of the others, practically sprinting to the thick brush along the banks. Quanah briefly considered going out to kill the white man with Mochi, but didn't want to risk making too much noise. Then the white man stopped and Mochi did as well, but only briefly. Then she continued on to the river, while the white man returned to his camp.

The three other Indians hung back as Medicine Water rushed to Mochi's side. She said something to him, then gently pushed him away. She walked down along the river and threw the things in her hand into it. She pulled off her dress and got into the water, ducking completely under the surface, then emerging. Ever since he had met her, Quanah had imagined the glory of Mochi naked, but now that he could see her he felt no sexual tug, only astonishment at what she had just done. She scrubbed every inch of her body with handfuls of sand, rubbing so hard that it seemed her skin must tear off, and then she put her dress back on. Finally Medicine Water went to her and wrapped his arms around her. He guided Mochi away from the others and they sat together on the riverbank for a while. Quanah, Lone Wolf, and Iseeo kept a discreet distance from them.

“She is a woman of real courage,” Iseeo said. “I have never seen such bravery.”

After a while Mochi and Medicine Water stood up and gestured for the other three to join them. “We need to ride back,” Medicine Water said. “We know what we need to do now.”

Quanah looked at Mochi. Her right eye was swelling shut. “Are you all right?” he asked.

The familiar insolent glint was back in her left eye. “Of course I am. Are you?” But Quanah saw that she winced as she mounted her pony.

As they rode, Mochi shared her report. There were, she estimated, white men in the camp in the number of three times her fingers. There weren't any more hidden in the big hut. There were guns, lots of them, rifles and also the small guns—all of the white men wore those on their belts. Best of all, in the big hut there were many fine things, ammunition and knives and the curious white war clubs with blunt metal ends. There were sacks and sacks of food, things grown in the ground that were not as good as fresh meat but still would prove most welcome during the next cold season when it was hard to find game.

“After the great fight, we'll have so much,” Mochi said. “Everyone will walk away with many things.”

Mochi had also noted useful things about the huts themselves. She said that in two of them the walls were very thick and made of squares of grass and mud. The roofs of all the huts were the same, packed dirt held up by a crosshatching of log poles. These huts wouldn't burn, but she thought bullets fired from close range would penetrate the walls. Arrows wouldn't, so they should be aimed through the openings on the sides of the buildings, the ones protected with the shiny thing white men called glass. Arrows could break through that. All of the huts had the wooden doors favored by whites, and these were stout and could be barred from the inside. It would be best for the attackers to catch all of the whites outside. If any of the white enemy managed to get into the huts and shut the doors, it would be difficult, though certainly not impossible, for the Indians to get at them.

“Oh, we don't have to worry about that,” Iseeo said. “The Comanche Spirit Messenger is going to use his magic to keep them all asleep. They'll be lying on the ground outside their huts and we will just walk up and kill them. Afterward we'll speak of Isatai as the greatest ever among us.”

“Perhaps,” Mochi said, and Quanah thought she sounded doubtful. She must not believe Isatai any more than he did, proving herself a woman of sense as well as courage.

“They have horses and mules in their corral, and also some cattle,” she continued. “I heard dogs, not many. Maybe two or three.”

“And one woman,” Quanah said. “Where was she?”

“I didn't see her.”

They rode in silence for a while. Then Mochi said, “In the fight, there is one of the white men that I want to kill myself. He's easy to know because he's a small one, almost like a child. There will be confusion and everyone will want to kill any whites they can reach, but if it is possible, this one is mine.” She looked hard at Quanah, glaring with her good eye. “I know you're going to lead the attack. I want to ride in front with you.”

“You've earned that right.”

Mochi said firmly, “Yes, I have.”

•   •   •

W
HEN THEY REACHED
the war camp late in the morning, they summoned the warriors. Quanah, Medicine Water, and Lone Wolf described the white camp, the four main buildings all in a line, and how many enemies they would find there. They explained how the mighty war party would ride out soon and go almost all of the way before nightfall. After it was dark, they would make their way along the bank of the wide river, then follow the creek that broke off toward the meadow where the white men had their camp. They would spend the rest of the night far enough away so that the white hunters couldn't hear them. Just before dawn they would go the rest of the way down the creek, a very short ride, and then they would attack.

Isatai insisted on speaking then. He reminded everyone that the magic given to him by the spirits would cast the white men into sleep so
deep that it would be easy to ride up and kill them all. He would personally be there, staying just beyond the fight itself and communicating with the spirits, Buffalo Hump especially.

“Through me, they will guide and bless you,” Isatai said. “Believe, and everything that happens will be a good thing.” To Quanah's immense relief, Isatai seemed done talking; but as he was stepping back he caught himself, came forward again, and added, “Remember not to kill any skunks. The spirits say so.” There was some muted chuckling. “Don't do it,” Isatai repeated. Quanah quickly tugged him back and changed the subject, telling the assembled war band about all the fine things in the white hunters' biggest hut. They enjoyed hearing about the ammunition most of all.

•   •   •

S
OON AFTERWARD
, the procession of nearly five hundred warriors rode majestically out of camp. There were so many that it took a very long time. A man could have fletched a dozen arrows or a woman might have cooked a big meal from start to finish before the war band was completely beyond the circle of tipis and the horse herd just beyond. The barrels of their rifles and the blades on their spears glinted in the sun. The women, children, and old men remaining behind were dazzled by the spectacle. No one in living memory had seen so many fighting men in a single war party. The warriors were supremely confident. Even those who doubted Isatai's magic felt that the assembled fighting force was invincible. Quanah let Lone Wolf and the Kiowa take the lead. Though he would not participate in the fight, Satanta rode with them. Then came the warriors of the People, with Quanah and Isatai at the forefront. The Spirit Messenger closed his eyes and hummed, a much better thing in Quanah's estimation than babbling about skunks. The Cheyenne, at Quanah's suggestion, brought up the rear, with Medicine Water and his
dog soldiers hurrying along any stragglers and keeping the formation relatively tight. Mochi rode at Medicine Water's side. She was dressed in the same regalia as the other dog soldiers: leggings, a breechclout, and a war bonnet made from the feathers of predator birds. In addition, she wore a bone and hide breastplate. A bow and quiver of arrows was slung over her shoulder, she balanced a shotgun in front of her, and a long, wicked knife hung in a hide sheath at her side. Mochi's right eye was swollen completely shut, but her face glowed with anticipation.

C
ash McLendon was reluctant to stir from his blankets when Bat Masterson woke him shortly after sunup. As usual, he'd had trouble falling asleep, though this time not because he was troubled by mistakes in his past. Instead, he felt haunted by the suffering inflicted on the young Indian woman, and his head ached and his split lip stung from Shorty Scheidler's punches.

“For God's sake, Bat, leave me alone,” McLendon grumbled. The spot in front of Hanrahan's saloon where he'd chosen to lie down was soft with thick grass that was almost as good as a mattress. “Drunk as you were last night, I'd have thought you'd be slow to arise yourself.”

“Bad as we both might feel, some mornings require early activities,” Masterson said, prodding McLendon in the ribs with his boot until he groaned and sat up. “There's some fences to mend if we want to avoid future conflict, as we surely do.”

“Shorty, you mean.”

“Correct. Lingering grudges tend to fester, especially out in the country where we can't much escape each other's company. Go wash up and then let's get this over with.”

Masterson and McLendon found Shorty Scheidler where he usually
was in the early morning, sleeping beside his brother, Isaac, in their wagon, which they habitually left on the north side of the Myers and Leonard picket corral. The brothers, covered with thin blankets, were stretched out snoring in the wagon bed. Maurice, Isaac Scheidler's massive black Newfoundland, lay between them. When he heard Masterson and McLendon approaching, he raised his heavy head and growled low in his throat. Then, when he recognized McLendon, he yelped happily and hopped down from the wagon. McLendon gave the dog's head a brief pat and pushed him aside. Maurice barked some more, which woke the Scheidlers.

“Quiet, Maurice,” Isaac commanded, and the dog backed away. The taller Scheidler brother rubbed his eyes. “Boys, what brings you around so early in the day? Shorty and me always find it difficult to wake up.”

“We want to talk with your brother,” Bat said. “Shorty, are you feeling at all sociable this morning?”

“God, no,” the younger Scheidler moaned. “How much whiskey did we get on the outside of last night?”

“A considerable amount is what I recall,” Bat said. “Which, of course, led to some regrettable events. C.M. and I are wondering as to your recollection of them, and your current disposition in regards to us.”

“Ah,” Shorty said. He thought for a moment. “I've got the damndest lump on the side of my head, McLendon. It was impolite of you to smash me with that rifle butt.”

McLendon almost pointed out that it was much worse to beat and rape women, but thought better of it. Bat was right. What was done was done, and now it was important to avoid any additional trouble. “I'm sorry for that. If it helps, this apology is particularly painful as a result of your blows to my mouth.”

Shorty leaned down from the wagon bed and inspected McLendon's
puffy split lip. “Well, I'm glad to see I got in a lick or two of my own. After all, it was only a squaw. Do you admit that now?”

McLendon nodded because he couldn't choke out words.

Shorty smiled. “All right, then I'm regretful too. When I take a few glasses, it's my tendency to become irritable. Pals again, fellows?” He reached out and shook McLendon's and Masterson's hands in turn.

“Well, if that's settled, let's all go back to sleep,” Bat suggested. The Scheidlers rolled back up in their blankets in the wagon bed; Maurice whined mournfully as McLendon followed Masterson away. Bat went back to sleep, but McLendon knew that he couldn't. He wandered over to Myers and Leonard's, where Old Man Keeler fixed him a breakfast of coffee and bacon. His split lip stung as he chewed and swallowed.

•   •   •

T
HE DAY QUICKLY TU
RNED
uncomfortably warm. By the time everyone was up, the slightest movement brought perspiration. But the camp mood was good. Everyone was ready for the next big stage of the summer. Both stores did brisk business as the hunters and their crews stocked up on ammunition and other supplies. They stacked these things in corners and along the store walls, everybody knowing where his pile was and each respecting the property of the others. There was a great deal of excited conversation. Everyone seemed glad that there was a plan in place, one that virtually guaranteed both profit and personal safety. Despite his throbbing head and lip, McLendon got caught up in the camaraderie, only stepping back from the chatter and laughter when others made reference to the squaw they'd diddled the previous night.

Around noon, Jim Hanrahan announced that he'd found some weaknesses in the sod roof over his saloon. He could see daylight through parts of it, he complained, because there wasn't enough dirt on top.
Oscar Shepherd and Mike Welsh, who worked in the saloon, began digging a fresh supply, and Hanrahan promised two bottles of beer to anyone who'd help with the repairs. Billy Ogg and Jim McKinley took him up on it. With his headache easing, McLendon helped, too, though he intended to pass on the beer.

The work was harder than McLendon had anticipated. Not just any dirt would do for the roof. Hanrahan wanted the dark, denser earth near the banks of the creek. Shepherd and Welsh dug it up, and McLendon was given the task of hauling the dirt in a wheelbarrow from the creek bank to Hanrahan's saloon, where he dumped the load on the ground. Ogg and McKinley filled buckets and clambered up a ladder to the roof, where they painstakingly spread the dirt from one side to the other in a thick layer. Each bucket covered only a foot or two, and it was a long roof, so McLendon had to make many trips back and forth. The wheel on the front of the barrow was wobbly and it was hard to push the contraption in a straight line, which added to the chore. It was mid-afternoon before Hanrahan pronounced himself satisfied.

“There's a good two feet of protection on there, a considerable improvement,” he said.

Billy Tyler, a veteran teamster, asked if maybe there wasn't too much roof dirt now. “The weight of it might split the ridgepole,” he said. “That happens, the whole roof could cave in and kill everybody inside.”

“Oh, the ridgepole is good, stout cottonwood,” Hanrahan said. “It will hold almost infinite weight, so there's no danger of collapse.”

•   •   •

M
C
L
ENDON SPENT
the rest of the afternoon helping Billy Dixon with the horses. All of them needed to be curried and have their hooves checked. A few needed to be reshod, and Tom O'Keefe took care of that.
The blacksmith had dozens of shoes ready for use, but had to fit them to the hooves of individual horses. Like humans, their feet varied in size. It was critical for hoof and shoe to size up perfectly; an ill-fitting shoe might soon come loose, or else pebbles or thorns might work in between shoe and hoof, laming the horse. So, with each animal, O'Keefe measured hoof against shoe, then briefly returned the shoe to the fire until it was heated enough to tap into a shape that perfectly matched the hoof of the horse. Shoeing each animal took a half hour or more, which was why O'Keefe charged a dollar per horse's leg. The sound of iron being pounded reverberated all day from his boxy blacksmith shop.

As he and Billy worked and made cordial conversation, McLendon thought that his boss seemed preoccupied. Finally in the late afternoon, when all the Dixon crew horses were ready to go, he asked Billy what was bothering him.

“Oh, I just have this sense,” Billy said. His red setter, Fannie, lay on her back beside him, grunting with pleasure as Billy scratched her belly. “The Indian girl last night. I know there are always some squaws out on their own for whatever reason, but those women usually look a lot more badly used than that one did. Her ribs weren't poking out from starvation, and in an odd sort of way she seemed pretty. I know we didn't find any other Indians out there when we went looking, but still.” He switched his scratching from Fannie's belly to behind her ears, and she liked that too. “Tonight we better set up a strong guard, just in case. And when we set out in the morning, we should be especially watchful. There was just something odd about a squaw showing up like that.”

“None of the other boys seemed to think so.”

“Those I've mentioned it to have pronounced me overcautious, but where that woman is concerned, they're still thinking with their dangles. By the by, I heard about you and Shorty scrapping. Bat mentioned it.
You were correct in making things right with Shorty this morning, but you were also right taking him on last night. You're a good fellow, Cash McLendon.”

“Thanks,” McLendon said, wondering if Billy would still feel that way when he quit the crew in a few more weeks. Of course, he could still choose to stay for the entire summer, but winning back Gabrielle trumped loyalty to Billy Dixon.

•   •   •

J
UST BEFORE DUSK
, many of the men took their horses out of the picket corral and tethered them just outside of camp where the grass grew thickest. The horses could comfortably graze all night, which meant that in the morning the expedition would not be delayed while the animals were fed oats.

There was less drinking that night. Everybody wanted a clear head in the morning. But there was still some beer consumed. Around midnight, almost everyone went off to sleep. Most chose to curl up outside. It was a fearfully hot night. All the doors of the camp buildings were left wide-open to the slight breeze, but it was still stifling inside. Billy asked a few of the most veteran frontiersmen to stand guard, and in particular to watch the tree line along the creek, where Billy said any Indians were most likely to launch an attack. Bermuda Carlyle, Mike McCabe, and Dutch Henry said they would. Billy said that of course he'd join them, but Carlyle told Billy to try and get a good night's sleep instead.

“You're the leader here,” Carlyle said. “We'll need you fresh in the morning to make sure things get off as they should.”

With the exception of the guards, the last four up were Billy Dixon, McLendon, and the Scheidler brothers. When Isaac and Shorty said they were off to sleep in their wagon, Billy suggested that they first move it farther into camp, maybe down in front of the saloon.

“In the event of attack, you'd likely be too exposed in your present position,” Billy said.

Isaac was inclined to agree, but Shorty argued that it was late, he was tired from loading supplies into the wagon—cases of canned goods, sacks of dried fruit, other food for the morning expedition—and besides, there were lookouts who'd give plenty of warning if any Indians approached. Isaac said that made sense, and the brothers trooped off. Maurice loped between them, apparently preferring rest to another assault on McLendon's leg.

“Fannie and me are going to sleep beside my wagon outside Hanrahan's,” Billy said to McLendon. “Join us?”

“I think that I will. My rifle's still inside the saloon, though.”

“It'll keep there until morning. Keep your Colt close to hand, just in case. Meanwhile, you go on ahead, I'm going to go get my favorite saddle horse and tether it to the wagon. That way I'll be ready to mount up at very first light.”

“I'll go with you,” McLendon said, and they made their way to the corral. Fannie trotted alongside. Billy found his mount and led it back toward the wagon.

“Back in Texas, they call this a Comanche Moon,” he said, pointing up into the night sky. “Full moon, that's when the Co-manch generally attack. I suspect that's another reason I feel uneasy.”

Despite the heat, McLendon shivered.