Come Sundown (41 page)

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Authors: Mike Blakely

BOOK: Come Sundown
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I
made Santa Fe in four and a half days. That amounts to about sixty miles a day on horseback over mountains and rough country. That sounds incredible even to the best cowboys today, but I had honed my riding skills among Comanches, and I knew where to find fresh horses along the way at the ranches of friends.
I carried with me all the cash I had on hand at Boggsville—some three hundred dollars. In addition to that, I dug up a cache of four hundred thirty-five dollars in gold coin that I had buried some years before above Taos after returning from a successful mule-trading venture to Missouri. I also counted on later gathering over two thousand dollars that I had been keeping at Maxwell's Ranch for over a decade. I was prepared to spend all of my money now, in the form of bribes or gifts—whatever it took to avoid a campaign against the Comanches the likes of which had defeated the Mescaleros and the Navahos and sent them to the squalor and hellish internment of Fort Sumner and the Bosque Redondo.
Arriving at Santa Fe, I took a room at La Fonda, shaved, and had a bath. That very afternoon, just before the shops closed, I bought some attire befitting a frontier diplomat, and went to bed, having slept very little on the trail. I didn't sleep much
that night, either, but three hours a night is typical for me when the moon is waning, and I felt refreshed the next day.
I began gathering information. I spoke with Comancheros who had recently been out among the Comanches and Kiowas and I learned the locations and attitudes of as many bands of Indians as I could. I spoke with friends of mine who were officers in the volunteer army and tried to judge the overall attitude of the military toward a Comanche/Kiowa campaign. I found out that General Carleton intended to recruit Mescalero Apaches and Navahos to act as guides and scouts for the coming campaign. That failing, he intended to recruit Ute warriors. This I had expected. Kit had employed Utes to defeat the Navahos, and General Carleton believed in constantly pitting Indian tribes against one another to prevent them from uniting for an all-out war on whites.
While learning what I could about the attitude of the army, I also evaluated the military's ability to mount a campaign out on the distant plains. I collected intelligence about available stockpiles of weapons and ammunition and supplies that would be needed to support a regiment moving against the Indians. I looked over the condition of riding stock and wagons, and judged the morale of the volunteer troops themselves. I felt like a spy again—like when I went to San Antonio to observe and infiltrate the Confederate Army. Only this time I was spying on the U.S. Army for the benefit of the Comanche/Kiowa alliance. I was a turncoat, and that amused me greatly.
My third day in Santa Fe, I happened to run into the Indian agent for the Comanches, Martin Stocker. His agency headquartered at Maxwell's Ranch, but he had come to town to meet with General Carleton to discuss the Comanche situation. Stocker was a middle-aged man who had spent much of his life in government service. He spoke some Spanish, but no Comanche. Nevertheless, he was a good man and was serious about his job as Comanche Indian agent. We had met before at Maxwell's Ranch, but Stocker didn't even recognize me shaven, and in store-bought clothes. When he remembered who I was, he asked me to join him for lunch. We went to a
place the Mexicans frequented so we would not be bothered by eavesdroppers.
“Did his highness, the general, summon you to town for a royal audience, as well?” he asked, just before shoveling a large portion of enchiladas into his mouth.
I smirked at his sarcasm. “No, Kit asked me to come.”
He nodded as he chewed and swallowed. “So Kit's going to be sent out to round up the Comanches like he did the Mescaleros and the Navahos.”
“I don't know that for sure, but it seems possible, unless the campaign can be avoided.”
He gestured at me with his fork. “Listen, Mr. Greenwood, I'll do all I can to keep this campaign from happening. I could use your help. The better course of action would be to send a peace delegation into Comancheria.”
“I agree,” I said, savoring the taste of a beefsteak that had been pounded thin, grilled, and covered with a fiery sauce made of tomatoes, onions, and hot peppers. “If you can convince General Carleton of that, I will volunteer to guide the delegation onto the plains.”
He grunted his approval as his eyes watered. Sweat was dotting his forehead. The ability to enjoy real Mexican food took some time to acquire for most Anglos. Stocker was no native here, but he was trying to adapt. He swallowed, bolted a glass of water, and took a huge bite from a tortilla, knowing the tortilla would cool his burning mouth more so than the water. “It's more likely,” he finally said, “that they'll ask you to guide a war party.”
“That I cannot do.”
He looked at my face for a long moment, as if to judge my sincerity. Then he grunted and risked another fiery mouthful. Stocker asked me a lot of questions about the Comanches I had lived with. I avoided answering in too much detail and claimed that I had not been among the Indians very long, and not very recently, either. I considered Stocker an ally in my campaign to avoid a campaign, but I still did not want to give him too much specific information that he might eventually pass on to military authorities. I think he sensed my reluctance to cooperate
fully, for he gave me a strange look, grinned, and ceased his interrogation. “Perhaps it is better that I don't know everything about my charges at this point,” he said.
I shrugged.
“There's going to be a meeting with General Carleton tomorrow morning at headquarters. I would like for you to come. I need some support for the cause of peace.”
I nodded. “I will be there. That's why I came to town.”
 
 
COLONEL CHRISTOPHER CARSON arrived in town that afternoon, having come down from Taos where he had spent a few days with his family. Kit never attempted to make anything of an entrance wherever he went, but the town was buzzing with the news of his arrival by the time Martin Stocker and I stepped out onto the street from inside the cafe. I walked to the plaza that stood south of the main entrance to the old Palace of the Governors, where General Carleton made his headquarters. I knew Kit would be quartering there. I sat on the dirt of the plaza grounds, leaning against a tree for almost two hours, just watching, gathering my thoughts and my resolve, and enjoying the beautiful September afternoon.
Finally, I saw Kit step through the adobe portal of the palace. The military authorities had attempted to Americanize the look of the centuries-old Palace of the Governors by tacking up a long porch roof along the entire front of the building. There Kit stood under that shingled awning. He was looking old. His grizzled face seemed drawn, his eyes sunken. He carried his left shoulder slightly forward because of that fall in the mountains, four years ago. He stood with his feet set wide apart, still standing firm. His pale eyes darted attentively here and there about the plaza, and he seemed to be searching for something—maybe my arrival, I thought, flattering myself. He had taken to growing his hair long. Though thinning with age, it brushed his shoulders in a rare display of flamboyance that in reality was probably nothing more than an aversion to sitting still in a barber's chair and being lauded for his conquests and begged for stories of the Indian wars. His eyes were just about to locate me when someone recognized him and grabbed
his hand to shake it. The next thing I knew, there were three or four, then half a dozen, then ten men and boys gathered around the great Kit Carson, slapping his back and shaking his hand. He bore it as long as he could, then begged his leave and slipped back into the sanctuary of the palace.
 
 
I REPORTED TO Military Headquarters of the Department of New Mexico early the next morning. I found Kit standing in the courtyard of the palace with a cup of coffee in his hand, talking to General James Henry Carleton himself. The two men had campaigned against Indians together when Kit scouted for the then-Major Carleton in the First Dragoons. Carleton was fifty years old now, Kit fifty-five. They were both small of stature, but tough as tempered steel. They were brothers in the Masonic Lodge.
Other than that, Kit and Carleton seemed to have little in common. Kit was frontier born and raised, schooled in the wilderness. Carleton was from Maine, raised a Christian and a gentleman, educated in classrooms and taught to excel at everything he took on. Carleton had proven himself a valiant soldier at Buena Vista in the Mexican War, and in numerous campaigns against the Indians. He was tough and relentless. He believed God had sent him to the frontier to tame the heathen Red Man.
Kit saw me and came to shake my hand, then wrapped his arms around me in a back-slapping
abrazo.
“I scarcely recognized you in store-bought clothes,” he said. “How's that little squaw wife of yours?”
We talked and laughed together until the general stepped nearly between us as if annoyed at being ignored. “What brings
you
here, Mr. Greenwood?”
“Kit wrote, requesting I come.”
The general's eyes darted between Kit and me. “How did you know to be here this morning? You've obviously just now seen Kit for the first time in a great while. I just scheduled this meeting yesterday.”
“I had lunch with Martin Stocker yesterday. He told me about the meeting.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kid Greenwood knows the Comanches, Jim. He's traded with them for years, and has lived in their camps. That's why I asked him to come.”
The general nodded. “I'm aware of all that. Very well, you may stay, Greenwood.” He pulled a watch from his pocket and frowned at it. About that time, Martin Stocker walked briskly into the courtyard. “Mr. Stocker, you are almost late,” Carleton scolded. “Come into my office, gentlemen.”
We filed into a cool adobe room where we found a table spread with woefully incomplete maps of Comancheria. We pulled up chairs and sat down as the general offered coffee, which all of us declined. Carleton lit a coal-oil lamp, then sat.
“You know why you're here,” he began. “The time has come for our government to deal with the Comanche and Kiowa problem. The Kiowas have been making raids on the Santa Fe Trail for months. Now, it seems, their allies, the Comanches, have joined in the mischief with that raid down at Cimarron Springs.”
“Begging your pardon, General,” said Agent Stocker, “but I have had no confirmation that those Indians were positively identified as Comanche.”
“They wore buffalo horn headdresses and carried long lances. And the riding skills were those of Comanches. They used their horses as shields at a full gallop. That's Comanche.”
“Assuming the reports are accurate,” Stocker said, “the raid amounts to a crime against the citizenry, not an act of war. There is no evidence to suggest that the entire Comanche nation has become hostile.”
Carleton snorted. “Comanche is synonymous with hostile. Literally. What does ‘Comanche' mean, Kit?”
“It's Ute for ‘our enemies,'” Kit replied.
“There you have it,” Carleton said.
“The ancient enemies of the Utes do not necessarily have to become the enemies of the American people.”
“They have attacked an American settlement and killed American citizens.”
“Not as a nation. Those were the actions of a few renegades who should be hunted down and brought to justice.”
“That is exactly what I mean to do,” the general announced. “They will be hunted down. They and any Indian who harbors them must be taught a lesson.”
Stocker's face was turning red. “General, there is no reason to go to war with the Comanches. The best course of action would be to send a peace delegation into Comanche country and treat with them. They should be required to give up their captives and turn over the renegades who have engaged in raids. Then they should be provided with presents and rations, and shown the road to peace.”
“Presents!” Carleton roared.
“Yes. Just as William Bent has been authorized to grant presents and rations to the Cheyennes and the Arapahos.”
“William Bent does not operate under the jurisdiction of the Department of New Mexico. If he did, he would not be giving
presents
to the Indians.”
“Mr. Greenwood has offered to guide a peace delegation out onto the plains,” Stocker said.
The general glared at me. “Is that so, Mr. Greenwood?”
“If you will allow me an observation,” I answered. “I have spent some time in Comanche camps, trading for horses and buffalo robes. They do not want war with Americans. They are too busy raiding Texas to give a hoot about New Mexico. Since the war began they have reclaimed hundreds of miles of the frontier in Texas. As such, they are fierce enemies of the Confederacy, and therefore allies to America. I agree with Agent Stocker. The American government should seek a treaty with them and keep them pitted against the Texans.”

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