Buffalo Trail (36 page)

What they did hear almost immediately afterward were the pitiful sounds of animals in death throes—higher-pitched from horses and mules, lower but still agonized from oxen.

“They're killing all the stock in the corral and stalls,” McKinley said. “Why would they do that? I thought Indians liked to steal horses, take them for their own use.”

“It means they're settling in for the long term,” Bermuda Carlyle said grimly. “They're making sure none of us can steal away on a mount and ride for help.”

“I hope those left in Myers and Leonard can restrain themselves,” Billy said. “Some of them have powerful attachment to their animals, I know.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was shouting from that direction, a volley of heavy fire from the Indians, and a man's loud screams, which ceased almost instantly.

“Someone acted foolishly and got cut down,” Billy said. “These Indians are so damn smart. God knows what they're going to try next.”

There was another lull, a longer one this time. “I need to piss so bad,” Billy Ogg complained, and as soon as he said it, McLendon's bladder throbbed too. Though he was still convinced he was about to die, probably in some way terrible beyond his current imagination, the urge to pee was suddenly paramount.

“I suspect we all need to go,” Hanrahan said. “Be sure to take turns, boys, we need to keep lookout. They'll be back on us anytime.” He glanced around the wreckage of his saloon, then rummaged behind some bullet-riddled barrels. Hanrahan came up with some mostly empty, unbroken whiskey bottles and said, “Pee in these, and then we can throw 'em out the windows. If you just piss on the floor, it'll stink in here even worse.” Everyone cracked nervous jokes about what a terrible thing to do to liquor, but McLendon noticed that nobody drank any of the whiskey dregs before relieving themselves in the bottles.
If hide
men don't drink,
he thought,
they must believe themselves in
the utmost peril.
When they were done, they tossed the sloshing bottles out the broken windows and settled back to prepare for the next assault.

It came sometime around noon, when war whoops and gunshots announced that the Indians had resumed the fight. This time, clumps of attackers concentrated fire on the saloon and two stores from about a
hundred yards away while other groups staying low to the ground wormed their way close. It was an effective tactic. The cacophony of the constant barrage mixed sharp reports from repeater rifles, deep booms of shotguns, and even the belches of ancient muzzle-loaders. The Indian arsenal apparently included every type of gun. “I can't see them!” Jim McKinley shouted. “The bastards are invisible.”

“Watch the tops of the bushes and the high grass,” Billy Dixon said. “There's breeze coming from the west—if anything waves in another direction, it's because of an Indian for sure.” McLendon had lost any sense of direction, so he had no idea of which way west might be. He watched Billy, and when Dixon fired, McLendon shot in the same direction.

Once again some Indians got near enough to the sod buildings to fire through the saloon windows point-blank. The defenders returned fire and perhaps once in twenty shots were rewarded with screams of pain. When they had a chance to glance out, they saw with great satisfaction that more Indian bodies lay strewn about. These fallen attackers lay still and were, apparently, dead. The Indians were still bearing away their wounded. Enough were still on the offensive to pound on the barred wooden door and fire through the sod walls. With bullets whizzing past his head and body and legs, McLendon would have screamed in abject terror if he could have summoned the breath, but he couldn't. Panting with fear, he kept firing his pistol and reloading because there was nothing else he could think of to do. In a terrible moment of clarity, he thought for the first time that the others in the saloon were showing more outward signs of fear, too; even Billy Dixon seemed to fumble with cartridges as he reloaded the Sharps Big Fifty. The attackers were very close to overrunning the saloon.

McLendon had the sickening sense that this was it, the Indians would get them this time. There were too many Indians, and as the hammer
clicked down on a spent shell and he crouched to reload, he saw that he had just four cartridges left for his Colt. At almost the same moment, the other men inside the saloon began calling back and forth, asking who had extra shells.

“We're all of us about out,” Hanrahan announced. “Nothing for it: we'll need to make a run for one of the stores. They've got boxes and boxes of ammunition there.”

“That's suicide,” McKinley said. “It's, what, thirty yards in the open whichever one we try, and Indians out there everywhere. We'll never make it.”

“Some of us might,” Billy Ogg said. “It's worth trying.”

“McKinley, you want to stay in here and try fighting them off with dirt clods?” Hanrahan asked. “Or maybe kill yourself and save the savages the trouble?”

“Well, we better use what we got, and then each man can make his own choice as to what he does next,” Billy Dixon said, and McLendon decided he would do whatever Billy did. He loaded his final four bullets, peeked out a window, and fired three times. He thought that maybe he should save the final shot for himself if that was the way that Billy chose to go. Then Bat Masterson said, “Wait a moment—are they backing away? Why are they stopping now?” Incredibly, at the very moment when the white defenders in the saloon could no longer resist, the Indians had broken off their assault.

M
any in the war party were furious with Isatai after the first assault fell short. As the dog soldiers herded the war party away from the white huts, several warriors screamed at Quanah that the fat man had lied.

“He promised all the whites would be asleep on the ground and easy to kill!” a Cheyenne brave shouted. Quanah couldn't blame him, or any of the others. Isatai had unwittingly contributed to the resentment felt toward him. As it fell back, the war party could see Isatai high atop the bluff, standing with his arms spread wide as though bestowing a blessing. It was a hateful contrast to the situation below, where too many of the attackers groaned with pain from wounds. Because so many had believed Isatai's promise that any white bullets would pass through their bodies without doing harm, even the slightest injury seemed not only painful but a repudiation of the Spirit Messenger. Further, eight Indians lay dead in the dirt around the white huts—a small number in terms of the overall size of the war party, but still more battle deaths than the one or two that were traditionally acceptable.

The Kiowa were especially incensed. Several shouted threats to rush
up the bluff and kill Isatai. But before Quanah and Gray Beard could intervene, Iseeo the Kiowa demanded that his tribesmen relent.

“If some things he promised have not come to pass, maybe it's not the Spirit Messenger's fault,” Iseeo said. “We don't know what the spirits are thinking right now. The Spirit Messenger is still a holy man; let him pray while we go back and fight.”

“But he promised,” a Kiowa complained.

Gray Beard said quickly, “Yes, and he also promised that there were many good things in those huts for us if only we can kill the white men in there. We know that at least this part of what he said is true. Let's finish this fight. We can worry about the Spirit Messenger later.” Before anyone could resume railing against Isatai, Gray Beard began describing a new plan of attack. The white guns were too effective for the war party to launch another all-out charge. Instead, they could use the stacks of buffalo hides and the wooden animal enclosures for cover and get close that way.

“We'll keep fighting until the last white man falls, and then we'll feast on their food and put their bullets in our guns,” Gray Beard concluded.

The new tactic was effective, especially in reducing casualties. The Indians were able to get close enough to the three huts to pour fire in through the walls. Almost all of the white men's shots missed. This emboldened a Kiowa to stand and mock the defenders in the hut farthest to the left, and he was instantly cut down for his trouble. It reminded everyone else to be more cautious.

Quanah, leading a contingent of the People against the hut with the big corral, was encouraged. There didn't seem to be quite as much fire coming from that hut as before. Inside the odd wooden rooms the whites built for their livestock, he could hear horses, unnerved by the constant gunfire, kicking against the boards. If all the attackers maintained
discipline, victory seemed inevitable. The Cheyenne in particular were fighting well, with the dog soldiers circulating among them and reinforcing Gray Beard's battle plan. To a great extent, the Cheyenne chief had supplanted Quanah as leader of the attack, but that was all right. Quanah was learning a great deal from him. After the whites were chased away, of course, Quanah would use what he learned against the Cheyenne and the Kiowa, too, as the People reestablished their superiority.

Quanah and his fighters were almost up to the side of the hut when more of the Kiowa blundered. Since the early moments of the fight, the wagon where Quanah and Mochi had each killed a white man had stood unguarded, and in its bed rested many tantalizing boxes that undoubtedly contained treats and treasures. Now Bear Mountain, still painted black and blowing the white man's horn, could no longer resist. He and several other Kiowa broke off fighting and ran to the wagon. Putting their shoulders underneath it, they heaved so that the wagon turned on its side, spilling its contents on the ground and providing what appeared to be solid cover from the white men as they fired from the three huts. Bear Mountain and the others broke the boxes open and yipped with joy. They began stuffing things in their mouths. The mutilated bodies of the two white men lay at their feet, but that didn't discourage their appetites. “Get back to fighting!” one of the dog soldiers shouted at them, but they ignored the command. They were Kiowa, not Cheyenne, and so not subordinate to him. Then Quanah detected motion by a window opening in front of the middle hut. A white hunter with a rifle was trying to lean out. Quanah and several others shot at him and he ducked back inside, but a moment later he leaned out again and fired. The bullet tore through the wagon bed and hit Bear Mountain right in the mouth. He sprayed blood and half-chewed bits of dried fruit all around as he fell. The sight disheartened the rest of the war party. Despite the best
efforts of the dog soldiers, almost everyone began falling back. Instead of the spirits being with them as Isatai had promised, it seemed that all the magic of the day belonged to the white men. How else could a bullet have penetrated the thick wood of a wagon bed?

There was other commotion in the corral as Medicine Water, Mochi, and a few other dog soldiers systematically killed the animals there, mostly horses and a few oxen. They cut their throats when they could, or fired arrows into them, prudently conserving ammunition. Medicine Water caught Quanah staring and said, “Now none of the whites can ride away,” and Quanah nodded. It made sense. The animals raised loud cries of agony, and to everyone's surprise the door of the hut by the corral burst open and two white men came out, firing guns and trying to get to the dying stock. The attackers shot back, and Quanah was certain that a bullet from his Henry caught one of the white men right in the chest, driving him back toward the door. The other white man was apparently unscathed. He and the wounded one collapsed back inside and the door slammed shut.

But the momentum of the latest attack was broken. Again the war party moved back, this time toward the far end of the meadow rather than the creek. Quanah guessed Gray Beard led them in that direction to keep them as far as possible from Isatai at the top of the bluff.

Once more, there was considerable dissension, particularly among the Kiowa. Satanta came down from the bluff to join them. “I've been asked by the Comanche Spirit Messenger to tell you this,” he said. Satanta kept his voice calm, but the doubt he felt was clear from his expression. “He says that the spirits are still with us, and the whites are all going to die.”

“I never believed the fat one,” a Kiowa warrior said. “The white bullets weren't going to hurt us? Look at my arm.” There was a deep gouge
on his biceps. “I've had enough. I'm going home. Who will come with me?” He began to stalk away, but Iseeo hurried in front of him.

“Don't leave in the middle of the fight,” he said. “We will win, and you won't be here to get your share of the good things in those huts.”

The other Kiowa dabbed at his bloody arm with a bit of cloth. “Satanta, do you believe in this Spirit Messenger anymore?”

Satanta hesitated before he responded. Quanah thought,
He thinks Isatai is a liar, but he doesn't want to say so and end a fight we still can win.
Finally Satanta said, “I'm not sure. I think everyone should decide for himself.”

That was enough for about two dozen Kiowa. They took their horses from the young men holding them, mounted, and rode away. Another sixty or so from among all three tribes also left; these were either wounded men able to travel on their own or else family members of badly hurt warriors who needed help getting back to their respective camps. Counting them and also the eight dead warriors, the ranks of the original war party were reduced by about one-fourth. That still left more than enough attackers to obliterate the whites in the camp if only they could break into the three huts.

Lone Wolf, the Kiowa chief, joined Quanah, Gray Beard, and Medicine Water a short distance away from the rest of the war party. “Bullets,” Lone Wolf said. “We'll need more soon, there's been so much shooting.”

“There are bullets in those huts, too many to count,” Quanah said. “Tell your warriors to go in there and get them.”

“Didn't your Spirit Messenger say that he could belch up all the bullets that we needed?” Lone Wolf asked. “Was
that
true, at least? If it was, why don't you bring him down here and let him do it? Or else is this another thing he promised that won't happen?”

“I don't know,” Quanah said, even though he did. The only time Isatai had ever seemed to cough up bullets, it had been a trick. “This is
something Isatai has to do or not do. I never said that I was part of any magic.”

“But you let us believe that you were,” Lone Wolf said.

“Enough,” Gray Beard said. “Lone Wolf, do your warriors still have a few shots left? Quanah, do the Comanche? Medicine Water says that most of our people may have five or six bullets each. Forget magic. Let those who have bullets stay back and fire on the huts. At the same time, the others will quietly approach them, using the high grass and rocks for cover. When they are close enough, they will all run forward and throw themselves into the openings in the walls. The white men won't be able to stop them.”

“Many of those warriors will die, the ones who come in close,” Lone Wolf predicted.

“Do the Kiowa fear death so much?” Gray Beard asked, speaking slowly and letting the insult draw out. “Then let the Kiowa be the ones to stand back in safety and do the shooting. Cheyenne and Comanche warriors have all the courage necessary.” He looked meaningfully at Quanah, who said quickly, “I'll lead one of the attacks,” and Medicine Water said that he would too.

“Then we have our plan,” Gray Beard said. As they walked back toward the main group, Quanah reached up to take off the Cheyenne headdress. “Don't do that,” Gray Beard said.

“Why not? It's long and could catch on the brush.”

“When you wear it, it reminds the Cheyenne that the Comanche are now our brothers. Take it off, and some will wonder.”

“All right,” Quanah said. “Let's fight again before all of the Kiowa go away.”

The war party moved back into place. The Kiowa broke into three groups. Each concentrated fire on one of the white huts. Packs of Comanche and Cheyenne began working their way close, mostly moving
on their bellies through the high grass and taking occasional cover behind rocks. Based on the whites' return fire, they appeared to be confused. If they focused on the long-range Indian shooters, the other attackers would squirm up close; but if they leaned out the windows to try and shoot the closer Indians, they'd be easy targets for the Kiowa.

Some Cheyenne reached the outer walls of one of the huts and began firing through the sod. Quanah and his Comanche weren't far away from the hut to the south. It was now a matter of time. Quanah was just considering barking an order to jump up and charge when he heard loud voices behind him. The Kiowa were shouting for everyone to come back. It was a foolish thing when they were just about to rush the white huts. Quanah would have ignored them, but many of the other groups in the front didn't, and instead of rushing forward they turned around and crawled away. That left Quanah no choice but to do the same. He burned with anger and frustration.

“What?”
he hissed at Lone Wolf when everyone was back at the far end of the meadow. “We were on them, we almost had them. Why did you stop us?”

“The Kiowa have no more bullets,” Lone Wolf said.

“None at all? Not one more shot?”

“Maybe a few. But as we watched, we saw that the Comanche and Cheyenne were going to jump in those huts, kill the whites inside, and keep all the good things there for themselves. By the time the poor Kiowa came, there would be nothing left for us.”

“Everyone will share,” Quanah said. “You know that, I told you that.”

Lone Wolf's eyes narrowed. “What about the white men's guns?”

“What about them?”

“All of them must belong to the Kiowa. You promised this.”

Quanah was uncomfortably aware of Gray Beard standing just behind him. “There will be plenty of guns,” he said softly.

“You gave your word,” Lone Wolf repeated, and his voice was loud. “All the guns to us, not any to the Comanche or Cheyenne.”

“Is this so, Quanah?” Gray Beard asked. “You promised this to the Kiowa?”

“I can't remember,” Quanah said helplessly. “Just before battle, a man might say many things.”

Gray Beard regarded Quanah for a long moment. “This can wait. We need to kill the white men first. But leaders must always speak carefully, because others will remember what they say.”

“Of course,” Quanah said, relief washing over him. “Let's finish this fight.”

“We still need bullets,” Lone Wolf said. “But there is an easy way for that. We'll just summon the Comanche Spirit Messenger and he can make us some.”

Panic surged through Quanah. “No time for that; let's resume the attack. We can use arrows, maybe.”

“An easy thing,” Lone Wolf said again. “This is what we Kiowa were told. It's time now. Summon your Spirit Messenger.”

Quanah looked at Gray Beard, who shrugged. “All right,” Quanah said reluctantly. He signaled for Timbo and Yellowfish, two of the People's younger braves, and told them to go to the top of the bluff and fetch Isatai.

After posting a few guards to keep watch over the whites in the huts, the main war party once again moved back across the creek. They milled about until the Spirit Messenger arrived. To Quanah's astonishment, the fat man appeared completely unabashed by the failure of his prophecies. If anything, his attitude was haughty.

“You interrupt my prayers,” he said. “Why?”