Buffalo Trail (7 page)

McLendon sighed. “I suppose that's the fate I deserve.” He gulped the last of his coffee and pushed back from the table. “Thanks for breakfast. Now I need to commence knocking on doors and find some sort of employment. If I don't find any right away, I suppose I'll be reduced to selling my belongings.”

“What you got?” Shorty asked. “We've had steady business and I might be willing to buy.”

“There's a fine suit, custom-tailored in St. Louis.”

“I doubt it would fit. Besides, I have little occasion to wear a fine suit. What else?”

“A good Navy Colt, only used once. And a book that I'll never sell, for sentimental reasons.”

Ike said, “It's gotten too hard to get ammunition for Navy Colts. And even if you wanted to part with the book, you'd find little interest. Not
many people in Texas bother with books. That is, if they can even read at all.”

“Well, then, I guess I'll find employment here or sleep hungry and on the ground tonight.”

Isaac and Shorty exchanged glances.

“Fort Griffin doesn't abound with jobs,” the taller brother said. “If you're of a mind, you could come with us to Kansas. Dodge City's a new town and a rough sort of place, but there are jobs of all sorts available. At the very least we could help you catch on with some of the hide men, to work in their camps. When you recover from financial embarrassment, you can go on to California. The train comes through Dodge City, you see.”

Anything seemed better to McLendon than being stuck in Fort Griffin, and he thought that Dodge City didn't sound like the kind of place where Killer Boots would come looking for him. “I couldn't pay you for the transportation,” he said.

Shorty waved his hand dismissively. “Don't fret about it. We'll be glad of the company, and it won't be the most comfortable journey. We sleep in the wagon beds at night, and beans and biscuits make up the entire menu. Say, I hope you don't mind dogs. Isaac's got this big-ass Newfoundland named Maurice that he treats better than me.”

“Because Maurice has got better manners,” Isaac said.

“At least I go into the bushes when I feel the need to shit. Anyway, McLendon, you can help with the horses and otherwise make yourself useful. Trip takes about ten days, less we run into Indians and have to scurry to save our hair. Will you join us?”

“I'd be proud to,” McLendon said. “And I'm grateful for the chance.”

It rained most of the trip, and because of the mud and some flooding they didn't reach Dodge City for eighteen days. McLendon spent almost every day soaked to the skin, and on the one night it didn't rain and they
could sit out beside a campfire, the Newfoundland took an unnatural liking to McLendon and kept humping his leg.

“Let loose of McLendon, Maurice,” Isaac called as McLendon pried the dog off. Maurice was determined and made several more attempts before he finally retreated under a wagon, where he lay panting and eying McLendon with an unnerving expression of lust.

“I think Maurice loves you,” Shorty said.

“The feeling's not mutual,” McLendon said. He wanted to rub his leg but thought better of it—Maurice might take it as an invitation. “I'm not fond of dogs anyway. This one eats as much as a man and spooks the horses besides. What use is he to you?”

Isaac lit a clay pipe and puffed contentedly. “Ol' Maurice may have his faults, but I promise you this: If you or anyone raised a hand to Shorty or me, that dog would flat tear your ass off.”

“I think he has something in mind for my ass other than tearing it,” McLendon said. Later, he tried to wrap up in his blankets as far away from Maurice as he could. Though the dog didn't immediately launch another attack on his leg, McLendon felt certain that it was only a matter of time.

•   •   •

F
OUR MONTHS LATER
, McLendon lay on his cot in the Olds boardinghouse, brooding as usual about the
if only
regrets in his life. If only he hadn't given up Gabrielle for Ellen Douglass. If only he'd been able to persuade Gabrielle to leave Glorious and come to California with him. If only he hadn't gotten drunk in Fort Griffin and lost all his money to that poker cheat Doc Holliday. Now he was stuck in sorry-ass Dodge City, Kansas, spending his days collecting buffalo bones and his nights anguishing over past mistakes. His life was in ruins and it was his own fault.

McLendon brooded in the dark until Masterson finally stumbled in, rattling on about a whore in Sherman's dance hall who had titties the size of buffalo humps.

“Oh, and Pat Callahan says he spotted Billy Dixon and his winter crew a few days ago just south of the Cimarron,” Bat mumbled as he fell onto his cot and pulled the ragged blankets up around his shoulders. “I expect that means Billy's about completed his scout and will be coming back to town anytime. Thrills and excitement are soon to be upon us, C.M.”

“Maybe so,” McLendon said. Masterson was snoring in seconds. As usual, it took McLendon much longer to fall asleep.

I
satai was ready to pronounce the great news to the Quahadi camp: Buffalo Hump was the spirit speaking through him. Though Buffalo Hump had not made his ultimate command for the People quite clear to Isatai yet, that would happen very soon. It was extremely gratifying to Isatai that the greatest of all the People's leaders had chosen him as messenger. Isatai was eager to bask in the additional attention he was bound to receive when he made the announcement.

Quanah insisted that he wait—at least a few days, maybe more. “Everyone needs to be hungry for your words. I'll go about and whisper that the spirits are talking to you again, and you'll deliver their message soon. If everyone has to wait a little longer, they'll be sure to listen better.”

“I feel that the spirit of Buffalo Hump wants me to speak now.”

“Buffalo Hump and all the other spirits understand the way living people are. Naturally a holy man like you doesn't have the same lowly desires and faults as the rest of us. Our ears need time to get ready to hear. I want to learn Buffalo Hump's message very much; it's hard for me to ask you to wait. Just two days, maybe three.”

Isatai was pleased to be referred to as a holy man. “Perhaps you are
right. I'll go sit awhile and consider this.” A few hours later he informed Quanah that Buffalo Hump did, in fact, want him to wait a little longer.

“I'll stay in camp rather than go out to hunt,” Quanah said. “That way, when you tell me the time is right, I can gather everyone to come sit at your feet and drink in your wisdom.”

The first hard snow fell that night, and the village awoke to high winds that drove them back into their tipis, where they wrapped themselves up in whatever blankets and fur robes they had and shivered around low fires. They ate sparingly from small stores of food and passed the time wondering when Isatai would next reveal more thoughts of the spirits. Nothing could have suited Quanah better. It would take several days, he thought, for the storm to pass. When it did, when everyone came outside again, when the sense of anticipation was almost unbearable, then it would be time for Isatai to speak.

But on the third morning when the sun came back out and the birds chirped greetings, just before Quanah could gather a crowd and fetch Isatai to address it, the rumble of hoofbeats was heard coming from the southeast. The riders were other Indians; the Quahadis knew this because unshod hooves made a thudding sort of clatter on hard winter ground instead of the clanging of Army steeds with horseshoes.

“It's some Kiowa,” a man shouted. “I see Long Branches, Lone Wolf's nephew.” Lone Wolf was the chief among those Kiowa who remained off the white man's reservation. Long Branches, named for the astonishing length of his arms and legs, was considered a good fighter by the Comanche—a considerable compliment, since it was understood by everyone that Comanche were the finest fighters of all.

Long Branches and eight other Kiowa men rode into the Quahadi camp and dismounted. They exchanged greetings and asked to speak to the men of the village.

“What's this?” Isatai whined to Quanah, who had just come to the fat man's tipi to tell him that it was finally time to deliver the latest spirit news.

“We have to wait and see,” Quanah muttered. He and Isatai joined the crowd gathering around Long Branches and his men.

Long Branches smiled and said, “It's a pleasure to be here among all the great warriors. I have a thought to share. Like you, our people have been cold and hungry. I believe it's time to go out and raid, to bring back horses and maybe guns and blankets and some scalps to decorate our tipis with. I want to do it the old honorable way, riding down among the Mexicans and taking what we please. There are nine of us ready to go. Will any men from this camp join us?”

This was the traditional means of raising a war party from among the People. One warrior developed a plan and invited others to participate. If enough were interested, they rode off with him. If his proposal didn't elicit sufficient interest, he stopped talking about it. Previously it had not been necessary for a man to try to raise a war band outside his own village, but in recent times the various Indian tribes had been so decimated that few camps had sufficient numbers to form complete war parties. Still, Long Branches was taking a chance coming among the Quahadi for recruits. The People were proud of their fighting preeminence. It was understood by the Kiowa and the Cheyenne and the Arapaho that they only lived in the same general vicinity because the People chose to allow it. Any tribes they didn't care to tolerate—the Apaches and the Tonkawa, especially—were driven off to territory that the People didn't want for themselves. It was considered proper for warriors from among the People to come to the Kiowa and the other, lesser tribes to fill out raiding parties, not vice versa.

Long Branches understood this, so his next words were placating.
“I'm here because you are the best fighters of all. With you along, I know the raid will be a success. There must be some men among you who are tired of sitting in the cold. Come and teach us how to fight.”

There were murmurs of approval. A half-dozen Quahadi warriors went off to their tipis to fetch their rifles and quivers. Quanah wasn't among them. He remained standing with Isatai in front of the fat man's tipi. Long Branches, scanning his remaining listeners, spotted him there.

“Quanah!” he called out. “Surely you will ride with us. This camp's greatest warrior would enjoy a good fight with the Mexicans.”

“This is the wrong way to do it,” Quanah said. “You'll have, what, maybe fifteen men? Yes, you may steal some horses, scalp a few Mexicans, but what if you're trapped somewhere? There won't be enough of you to fight your way out, and if you try to run, they'll still get some of you. Even if you get away clean, what is accomplished? A few more horses in your camp won't change anything. The whites will still be coming into our land.”

Long Branches didn't want to risk Quanah's wrath. “I honor your words, but I don't agree with them. We need to raid. It's the real joy in life.”

“The real joy is in driving away our enemies for good. Wait awhile, maybe a way will be revealed to do that.”

“I'm tired of waiting. I want to fight. Who else among the Quahadi feels that way?”

Ultimately, fourteen warriors, almost a fifth of the Quahadi camp's fighting men, rode off with Long Branches and the other eight Kiowa. To Quanah, that was bad enough, but almost as soon as Long Branches' raiding party disappeared over the stark winter horizon, a dozen young men who hadn't gone with him began preparing a war party of their own. Their leader was Cloudy, Quanah's nephew.

“We need you to come with us, Uncle,” he told Quanah. “We're
not going all the way to Mexico, just down far enough to find some whites to kill. We haven't counted coup for too long.” Counting coup was the People's way of measuring the greatest acts of bravery. Warriors came close enough to their enemies to touch them, then whirled away before they could be brought down.

“If you wanted to be in a war party, why didn't you go with Long Branches?” Quanah demanded, sounding and feeling sour. Now, instead of anticipating Isatai's next messages from the spirits, the whole camp was talking about raiding.

“Ah, I'd never ride under the leadership of a Kiowa. Come south with us. It was my idea, but you can lead. We'll bring back many horses and scalps.”

“I understand how much a young man like you wants to fight, but you need to think on this. I hear that Bad Hand is lurking just above Mexico. If you encounter him, it will go badly for you.” Bad Hand was the name that the People had given to Ranald Mackenzie, a wily Army colonel who had lost several fingers during the Civil War. Quanah himself had survived several fights with Bad Hand and his troops, and even won a few, but they had been near things. Unlike other white officers, Bad Hand tried hard to think like the People and anticipate what they would do next. His troops were guided by crack Indian scouts, Tonkawa and Black Seminole. Once Bad Hand was on your trail, it was hard to shake him, and when he caught you, he was lethal.

“Bad Hand won't know we're near. We'll ride too fast.”

Quanah shook his head. “You'd be wise to stay here, just for the present. The spirits have been talking to Isatai again. Soon he'll reveal their plan for the People. I believe that there will be fighting and a lot of it, just in a different way. We'll need you and all our other young men. We can't afford to lose you on foolish raids that accomplish nothing.”

“This raid will bring us honor, and spirits talk in their own good
time. For all we know, Isatai won't have anything to tell us until we're back with scalps and horses. Maybe some white or Mexican women too. Come with us, Uncle. You know how you love a good fight.”

“I can't change your mind? All right, then. Go do what you think you must, but if you see Bad Hand down there, turn and run.”

Cloudy grinned. “As you know better than anyone, enemies run from the People. I'll bring you back a fine horse as a gift.”

Cloudy's raiding party left the next morning, whooping with anticipation. As soon as they were gone, Quanah went to see Isatai, who was in his tipi fussing with his hair, trying to get the long braids even. Though animal fat was particularly prized during these hard winter months for its nutritional value, Isatai nonetheless rubbed a chunk on the braids to make them shiny.

“I'm about to speak, Quanah. Announce it to the village.”

Quanah laid a restraining hand on Isatai's shoulder.

“You need to wait again. All anyone can talk about now are the raiding parties. We need to see what happens to them. Until then, no one is ready to listen to you or the spirits.”

Isatai was offended. He drew back his head and regarded Quanah balefully.

“I speak for Buffalo Hump. Of course everyone will listen.”

“They won't. They're not wise like you. All they can think about is what's happening now, not what the spirits have to say about the future. You don't want to waste your words, Isatai. People listen best to the spirits when they know that they need them.”

“Buffalo Hump commands me to speak.”

“Buffalo Hump has chosen you because of your wisdom. If he'd picked someone like me, I'd be foolish and proud and blurt out everything whether or not there were ears ready to hear. You're smarter than that.”

“Perhaps,” Isatai said grudgingly. “I suppose I should wait until our young men return?”

“You're correct. I trust and accept your judgment. Eager as I am to hear you speak the spirit's words, I'll make myself wait until then.”

•   •   •

I
N THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED
, Quanah felt torn. As a proud Quahadi, he naturally wanted the two war parties to have great success. But if they did, if they returned with many horses and scalps and perhaps some captives, the camp was much less likely to embrace the idea of assembling a single massive fighting force against the whites, even if the spirit of Buffalo Hump urged them to do it. And in that case the time Quanah had invested in Isatai would be wasted. For now, all he could do was wait like everyone else to see what happened to the raiders led by Long Branches and Cloudy. He hoped that Isatai would be able to keep his mouth shut until then.