Buffalo Trail (33 page)

S
everal scouts rode ahead of the war party. Besides the white men that they intended to attack at the meadow camp, there were also scattered smaller groups of white hunters in the area. The plan was to fall on these groups if they encountered them, taking care to see that none escaped to warn the camp in the meadow. But all they saw was a herd of several dozen buffalo that had strayed far from the main herd. Quanah and Gray Beard exchanged glances, and when Quanah nodded, Gray Beard sent Medicine Water and the other dog soldiers off to kill some. It was late afternoon and a good time to stop and eat fresh meat.

Within minutes, the dog soldiers had most of the buffalo dead on the ground before them, all of the beasts taken down with arrows and lances so that the sound of gunfire would not alert any white men in the area to the war party's presence. Usually it was the job of women to skin and gut the buffalo, then cut up and cook the meat. Mochi was the only woman in the band. She helped kill the buffalo and did some of the butchering, too, joined by the other dog soldiers. In time of war, it was not shameful for men to help with such tasks. Some of the People and Kiowa built cooking fires. Since every scrap of edible buffalo flesh was used, including the livers and hearts, there was enough meat for all to eat their fill.
Afterward Quanah, Lone Wolf, Gray Beard, and Medicine Water told their tribesmen to rest. They were not far away from the meadow camp and there was a while to wait before making a dawn attack.

“We don't want to get too close, then ask our young men to wait,” Lone Wolf cautioned. “Their blood is up and they'll want to fight as soon as they see the huts of the white hunters.”

“We'll stay here until the moon is high,” Quanah said. “That way everyone will be rested.”

The warriors prepared for battle in different ways. Veterans of many fights carefully inspected their weapons, testing bowstrings for tautness, arrow fletchings for stability, and knife blades for keenness. They counted their bullets to know for certain how many shots they had. Once this was done, they calmly sat and smoked and talked quietly among themselves. Younger men who were mostly still untested in war checked their weapons, too, and then paced nervously or stared hard at the horizon, willing themselves to be brave and bring honor to themselves in the hours ahead. Mostly the People, Kiowa, and Cheyenne stayed with their own—gaps opened between the groups of tribesmen, which was to be expected, since their customs were so different. But Gray Beard motioned for Quanah to walk with him a little, away from the others so that no one would overhear.

“You've done well, Quanah,” he said. “You understand what a leader must do, using others.”

Quanah's eyes narrowed. He said, “I don't know what you mean.”

“I understand it all,” Gray Beard said. “You saw that the only chance to make the whites leave us alone was to fight them a different way. Even though the People don't believe any other tribe is their equal, you came to us and the Kiowa anyway because you needed our help. When the Comanche don't need us anymore, you'll fight us or ignore us, whatever you decide. But for now you call us your friends.”

“You're wrong.”

“No, I'm not. It's all right. We want to chase away the white men too. For now, they're the enemy. We'll worry about everything else later. You were very persuasive. If we didn't know the Comanche so well, we might have believed you. Maybe the Kiowa did. But not the Cheyenne.”

Quanah swallowed hard. “Then why are you here?”

“I told you. The whites are the enemy of us all. We can fight among ourselves again after we drive them away. Meanwhile, those of us who know better will pretend just like you that we believe in your fat prophet and all his talk about spirits and magic. Look at him there.”

Quanah looked. Isatai was sitting apart even from the warriors of the People. His eyes were closed and he was humming so loudly that Quanah and Lone Wolf could hear him even though they were many paces away.

“You used his foolishness to make everyone do what you wanted,” Gray Beard said. “I approve. If this attack fails, he'll be blamed instead of you. Everyone will say it was his magic that was wrong, not Quanah. He'll be killed or driven away and you will still be respected, still be a leader. Very, very good.”

“The attack won't fail,” Quanah said. “There are too many of us and the white hunters are going to be surprised.”

Gray Beard patted the younger man on the shoulder. “I think so too. And, of course, we both know that winning tomorrow won't be enough. We'll kill all of them and take their guns, but that won't scare away the rest of the whites. You think that, after winning this fight, the warriors will be so happy that they'll agree when you say we need to make another attack somewhere else. And if we do that and win again, and then two or three more times after that, maybe the whites really will go away. That's your real idea, the one you haven't told anyone else.”

Quanah couldn't help smiling. “Next time, I think maybe we will
fight whites near an Army camp. We'll kill the people and the soldiers who come to save them. There's a place to the north. The whites call it Dodge. You understand what I'm doing, Gray Beard, and that you help the Cheyenne when you help me. You're a smart man.”

“Leaders must be, and maybe after this everyone will call you a great leader. Now let's go back to the others.”

•   •   •

W
HEN NIGHT FELL
, there were more preparations. Almost everyone had put on paint before leaving the main village, but now they daubed on more. Warriors among the People traditionally coated every inch of exposed skin with black paint, which they believed intimidated their enemies. Isatai didn't put on any paint. He said that the spirits wanted him to do this just before the fight began. The Kiowa and Cheyenne adorned themselves in brighter colors, mostly blues and some red. But Bear Mountain, the hulking Kiowa, shocked everyone by completely covering himself with black paint.

“I do this in honor of our Comanche brothers,” he announced. “And I also want to honor our great chief, Satanta, who will be with us in this battle but won't fight himself. Satanta has given me his metal horn to blow into during the fight, the one that he took many years ago from a white soldier. When you hear the noise from this horn, fight even harder.” There were whoops of approval.

“The Cheyenne have a gift for our friend Quanah,” Gray Beard said. “The honesty in his voice when he told us that the Comanche now think the Cheyenne are their equals has touched our hearts. So we give him this to wear in the fight.” Medicine Water and Mochi came forward carrying a long, many-feathered headdress just like the ones worn by Cheyenne chiefs.

“Put it on,” Mochi said. Quanah did. He didn't want to fight while
wearing such a cumbersome thing, but there was nothing to do but smile and thank Gray Beard for the present.

•   •   •

W
HEN THE NIGHT
was at its darkest and the full moon was high enough, they rode on again in formation, four abreast, with the Cheyenne leading, then the People, and the Kiowa last. Quanah and Lone Wolf rode in front with the Cheyenne chiefs. There was some whispering in the ranks, but mostly everyone was quiet, thinking of the fight ahead. Almost immediately they entered some low hills and followed the river cutting through them. As they did, there was some rustling in the grass and brush and small nocturnal creatures fled. Some skunks scurried right in front of the riders. Several of the young Cheyenne braves near the front of the procession laughed and loosed arrows. They were very nervous, and shooting at these animals seemed a good way to relieve some of the tension.

Almost immediately, there was a loud howl. Isatai had been riding with the rest of the People, but now he rushed forward.

“What have they done?” he cried. “What have they done?” He dropped clumsily off his horse and bent down in the grass. Quanah, Gray Beard, Medicine Water, and Mochi rushed to see what had disturbed him so.

“Look!”
Isatai squealed, pulling back tufts of grass. In the light of the full moon, they saw a skunk skewered by two arrows. It was clearly dead. The fat Spirit Messenger shouted, “The spirits said that skunks were holy! Now you fools have killed one, and the spirits will be angry. Whose arrows did this thing?”

No one stepped forward.

“Tell me!” Isatai raged. “Maybe if we kill you in your turn, the spirits will forgive the rest of us. Tell me! Tell me!”

“Do something,” Gray Beard hissed to Quanah. All Quanah could think of was to wrap his arms around Isatai and drag him away. Isatai struggled and it was hard for Quanah to get a good grip, but he managed to haul the Spirit Messenger away, whispering that he must be quiet, he was ruining everything.

“We're ruined, but it's not my fault,” Isatai moaned. “I told everyone that skunks were sacred, I told them.” He began to cry, great heaving sobs. Quanah was appalled.

“Stop this, stop it now,” he commanded, but Isatai kept crying. Quanah looked past the fat man and saw that many members of the war party were staring. Mochi's lip curled in disgust. She whispered something to her husband, Medicine Water, who nodded. Quanah knew he had to get Isatai under control.

“Enough,” Quanah hissed in the fat man's ear. “We're close to the white camp now. We need to keep going. And after we kill everyone there, it will be clear that your own magic is so strong that it can overcome anything, even this. The spirits love you. They're still with you. Don't you feel it, Isatai? Stop crying and be strong the way that the spirits want.”

Isatai sniffed and wiped his eyes. After a moment he said, “Maybe so. But whoever killed the skunk must go.”

Quanah consulted with Gray Beard, who beckoned Medicine Water. Medicine Water and his dog soldiers walked briskly into the ranks of the Cheyenne. Moments later, three young braves rode away north.

“They're gone, Isatai,” Quanah said. “It's time for us to ride on.”

“First I must bury the skunk,” said the fat Spirit Messenger, and everyone had to wait while he did, and also while he offered an interminable prayer. Then he said gravely, “I believe that the spirits are satisfied. Buffalo Hump tells me so.” By the time they resumed riding, Quanah knew they would have to move fast in order to make their attack just
before dawn. He sent scouts ahead. Soon they rode back and reported that they'd gone into the brush along the creek leading to the meadow and observed no guards posted there or anywhere else. Most of the whites seemed to be asleep out on the ground in front of their huts, ready to be surprised and slaughtered.

W
hen the sharp
crack
broke the night stillness, everyone at Adobe Walls was startled awake. The immediate impression was that they were under attack. Stumbling out of their blankets, the men fumbled for guns and looked frantically out into the dark, trying to identify assailants. But beyond the single loud report, there was no noise other than the soft hooting of owls in the trees along the creek.

“Be watchful, boys,” Billy Dixon ordered, his voice thick with sleep. “C.M. and I will go out and confer with the guards.”

McLendon wasn't pleased. Wakened from his own light doze by the sound, the last thing that he wanted was to go off into the brush where, for all he knew, Indians might be waiting. But he couldn't think of how he might avoid going with Billy without looking like a coward, so he followed him toward the creek.

“Hello the guard,” Billy called softly. “What's the situation?”

Mike McCabe stepped out of the trees, startling McLendon. He automatically dropped his hand to his Colt.

“Keep that in its holster,” McCabe snapped. “Billy, Dutch Henry, and Bermuda are out circling the meadow. I've followed the river back a
ways and didn't find anything. Whatever that noise was, it didn't come from here.”

Moments later, Carlyle and Dutch Henry returned. They hadn't seen anything, either.

“Then what the hell—” Billy said, breaking off as they heard shouts from back at the camp. “Let's go see what that commotion's about.” Along with McLendon and the three guards, he hurried back.

Everyone was gathered in front of the saloon, where Jim Hanrahan looked sheepish in the light of the lantern he held.

“Well, boys, I'm put in my place,” he said. “Billy Tyler is a smarter man than me. He said that too much dirt was put on the roof yesterday, and predicted the ridgepole would crack. Now it has. Everything in my saloon is in danger of imminent burial.”

“So that was the noise?” Andy Johnson asked. “We weren't being fired upon?”

Old Man Keeler said, “Cottonwood is of a stout nature, so when it breaks, it makes a noisy job of it. So it's a false alarm. We can all go back to sleep, since it's but two in the morning by my pocket watch.”

“Now, hold there,” Hanrahan said as the other men began to move away. “There's the matter of saving my saloon.”

“No, it's a matter of getting our rest,” Charley Armitage said. “This is bad luck for you, Jimmy, and you have my sympathy. But many of us are moving out tomorrow, and need all the shut-eye we can get.”

“Charley, I thought you a wiser man than this,” Hanrahan said. “Sure, tomorrow some of you go on your way for a while, but then you'll be coming back here with hides, and when you do, you'll be wanting drinks. If this saloon and every bottle in it is deep beneath a mountain of dirt, all you'll find to wet your whistles will be creek water. Are you really wanting that? Take an hour now and help me get this ridgepole propped up. Nobody's asking you to sacrifice an entire night's sleep. It'll be easy
work, and I'll stand drinks for every man who joins in. The good stuff, mind, the very best bourbon.”

The offer lured a few helpers—Jim McKinley, Frenchy, Bat, Hiram Watson, and Billy Ogg. McLendon was certain that he wouldn't go back to sleep, so he pitched in too. Oscar Shepherd and Mike Welsh worked for Hanrahan in the saloon, so they had no choice. The work wasn't easy. They had to take lanterns out to the cottonwood grove along the creek, cutting and trimming logs by lantern light. Then they had to carry the logs inside the saloon and use them to prop up the ridgepole. That proved difficult, because, no matter how hard they tried, it was impossible to tell the exact spot in the ridgepole where it was cracked. Finally they braced almost every inch of it with new poles anchored in the saloon floor just behind the bar. Shepherd, Hanrahan's bartender, complained that this wouldn't leave enough room for him to move around comfortably as he mixed drinks, but the others shushed him, because they were tired and wanted the free liquor that Hanrahan had promised. Shepherd poured generous drinks, and as he sipped his, McLendon heard Billy Dixon arguing with Dutch Henry just outside the saloon.

“You guards need to get back by the tree line along the river,” Billy said. “I told you, that's the way an attack would come.”

“It's just turned three-thirty, Billy, and daylight's not so far away. And I told you that after the cracking woke us up, we patrolled the entire area. There are no Indians to be found. We're going to grab an hour's sleep.”

Billy shook his head as Dutch Henry wandered off toward the Myers and Leonard's store, apparently planning to sleep just outside it. When McLendon joined him, Billy said, “I'm still uneasy. I wish it were already daylight.”

“I guess that I could stand lookout if needed,” McLendon offered, hoping that Billy wouldn't take him up on it.

“No, Dutch Henry's probably right. If any Indians with violent intentions were near, they'd probably be in place by now and our scouts would have sniffed them out. What I'll do, in your company if you're willing, is just kind of stay alert right here. I see Hanrahan and Ogg are remaining on their feet too. Let's have a drop of bitters and some conversation with them so as to avoid drowsiness, and then we can begin rousing the others as soon as there's the slightest speck of dawn on the horizon.”

Like most of the others, Billy was convinced that bitters were a much more healthful drink than beer or whiskey. McLendon had his doubts. To him, the alcohol content of bitters was every bit as potent as liquor. But he sipped a glassful anyway and listened while Billy, Ogg, and Hanrahan talked about the expedition. They were optimistic in the extreme. There were still plenty of buffalo to the west and north of Adobe Walls, and even after another six weeks or so of hard hunting there should still be enough left to provide for a good season in summer 1875.

“Which means we should keep this camp open through the winter,” Hanrahan said. “Charlie Rath will agree. Between us, we should have enough men to defend it if need be. You and your crew ought to winter here, Billy.”

“I doubt that they'd be willing. They'll prefer Dodge City and its whores as they pass the cold months.”

“We might bring some whores here,” Hanrahan said thoughtfully. “Would that keep you content on these premises, McLendon?”

Billy answered for him. “At the end of this season, C.M.'s departing for Arizona Territory and a woman there. We see him again, I suspect it will be as a married man who's too true to dally with whores. He's proven himself to be a good man, one of the decentest I know.”

“That so?” Hanrahan asked, his tone making it clear that he wasn't interested in further discussion of McLendon's character. McLendon
understood. If he was leaving soon, then he was of no further use to Jim Hanrahan, and so Jim couldn't care less about him. Rich men were all the same. Still, it warmed McLendon's heart to hear himself praised. There had been few such compliments in his all-too-checkered past.

“I believe I see some red sky to the east,” Ogg said. “Might it be time to start rousing the boys?”

“Oh, they can sleep a few minutes more,” Billy said. “You and me and C.M. can go collect the horses staked out near the creek. We'll bring those in, then sound the wake-up call. It seems likely to be a peaceful morning, the heat notwithstanding.”

Billy, Ogg, and McLendon stepped outside. Billy was right: it was already quite warm and there was still no breeze. All along the fronts of the stores and blacksmith shop, men lay snoring. There was just enough light from the full moon to silhouette the high stack of buffalo hides between the blacksmith's shop and the picket corral. Some quarter mile away, one of the tethered horses whickered, and McLendon thought it was a pleasant sound.

“I need to stop at the wagon and collect my Sharps,” Billy said. McLendon went with him, and Fannie romped alongside. After they'd fetched the rifle, Ogg was about a hundred yards in front of them as they walked out of camp toward the grazing horses. On the way, they passed the wagon where the Scheidler brothers and their dog were sleeping under a tarp despite the heat. As Billy Dixon had suggested, it was a peaceful morning.