Buffalo Trail (22 page)

The six men rode toward the river, then eased down a slope and were lost to sight. McLendon waited nervously, expecting to hear gunshots. After ten minutes, Masterson came racing back.

“Everyone come on to the river!” he cried. “It's the Cator brothers—they're camped on the water!”

Bat rode beside Mirkle Jones's wagon as it lurched forward. “The Cators are hide men who came over from England,” he explained to McLendon. “Jim and Bob are fine fellows, crack shots and the canniest of frontiersmen. Turns out they made winter camp all the way down here, so they're well versed on the area. We'll have ourselves a fine time with them tonight.”

McLendon found the Cators to be especially congenial. Both had long dark beards that tapered to points just above their waists. Their camp by the creek consisted of a half-dozen tents for the brothers and their ten-man crew. Over mugs of tea, Jim and Bob explained that they chose to winter so far from civilization because the Indians had apparently abandoned the area.

“It seems that the majority of red fellows are drifting somewhat north and east, toward the reservations set aside for them,” Jim Cator said in an English accent that fell pleasantly on McLendon's ear. “The Army under Mackenzie must be wearing them down. You say that a few Kiowa came begging a few days back—well, that's what those remaining must be reduced to. We've camped out here and ranged where we
pleased, and never once have we suffered any attacks. As soon as the great herd arrives, which might be anytime now, what with this early heat, it's clear sailing for a fine season of shooting and skinning, with great profits for all.”

Hearing that was a tremendous relief. The Cator brothers were veteran hide men. When they downplayed any Indian threat, they could be trusted.

“You and Bob ought to come with us,” Billy suggested. “It's our intention to set up somewhere near the Canadian and build a considerable camp. We'll have every amenity, and merchants who'll buy your hides on the spot. And, of course, there will be so many guns behind stout walls that the Indians will leave us alone.”

“With respect, Billy, that sounds a little too crowded,” Bob Cator said. He was heavier than his brother and had a longer beard. “But we certainly wish you well, and promise to drop in to your new settlement from time to time.”

“Do that. You can sell your hides to A. C. Myers, who's opening a store wherever we light, and enjoy drinks from the bar of our mutual friend Jim Hanrahan.”

Hanrahan clapped Bob Cator on the shoulder and said, “In honor of this meeting, I think I'll just bring out a few bottles right now. Let's have a drink all around, and then some entertainment.”

The singing and dancing lasted long into the night. At one point, Bat insisted that McLendon stand up and sing. “It's your turn, C.M. Give us your finest tune.”

“Bat, you don't want to hear me sing.”

“Oh, but I do. Everybody does. Get up and provide some entertainment. It's required, if you truly wish to be one of the boys.”

McLendon looked hopefully at Billy, but Dixon was deep in
conversation with Jim Cator. “This is a mistake, Bat. I'm the worst singer in the world.”

“Sing, damn it. Mirkle Jones has his fiddle at the ready.”

“Wachu sangin'?” Mirkle asked.

McLendon tried to think of a song, any song, that he knew the words to. There was one . . .

“‘Buffalo Gals,' I guess,” he said. Jones nodded enthusiastically and set his bow on the fiddle strings. Taking a deep breath, McLendon sang.

“Buffalo gals, won't you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight? Buffalo gals, won't you
—
”
and then he stopped. All around the campfire, men stared at him with expressions of pain and even horror. “I said I couldn't sing,” he said defensively.

“You're a truthful man,” Bat said.

“So do I have to finish my song?”

“We'd all rather you didn't, C.M.,” Billy said. “I believe that, from now on, you can remain part of the audience.”

Mirkle Jones resumed playing “Buffalo Gals.” Somebody else stood up to sing. McLendon slumped down next to Billy. “At least I tried.”

“Yes, you did. And now, never sing again.”

On Sunday, they were deep in the Texas Panhandle and reached the South Canadian River. It was wider and deeper than the Arkansas and Cimarron. McLendon thought that they would make permanent camp on its bank, but Billy said no, what they needed was a place with streams of clean water and good grazing—maybe a valley if they could find one—with sufficient trees to provide lumber for building.

“When the herd arrives, it'll move parallel to the river,” Billy said. “We can't have the skinned bodies turning rotten right where we sleep and get our drinking water. We'd all get sick. We'll rest here tonight, and tomorrow I'm sure we'll find a suitable site.”

•   •   •

E
VERYONE WAS UP EARLY
and eager to go. The end of the trip was imminent. No one lingered over coffee and breakfast biscuits. Billy led the way along the creek bed, following its bends and turns. McLendon didn't see the sense of it. There were plenty of inviting hills nearby; surely some of them surrounded valleys containing the kind of stopping place required. When they made a brief stop to water the animals, McLendon asked Bermuda Carlyle where in the hell they were going.

“Oh, Billy's got a spot in mind,” Carlyle said. He reeked of the cheap plug tobacco that he chewed constantly. His teeth and shirtfront were stained with brown juice. “You're about to learn a little history.” McLendon was intrigued, but Carlyle wouldn't say more.

After almost a dozen miles, Billy stopped and gestured toward a flat plain dotted with what seemed to be the ruins of low walls. “There you are, boys. Go take a good look.”

The walls were weathered brick, formed from some sort of clay. They were very old and some were crumbling at the edges. McLendon guessed that they were all that remained of about a dozen buildings.

“Adobe Walls, this place was called,” Carlyle told him. “Built some forty years ago by men who thought they'd set up a trading post for white hunters and Indians. Didn't work out that way, of course. Owners got run off by the savages and then, ten years ago, Kit Carson and an Army bunch had a considerable clash here with about a thousand or more Co-manch and Kioways, the biggest war party just about ever, I expect. The Army boys took cover behind these walls as the Indians swarmed at 'em. Lucky for the soldiers, Carson had insisted that they bring four howitzers with them. It was enough firepower to hold off the Indians until nightfall, and then Carson and the soldiers escaped under cover of dark. The Battle of Adobe Walls—I doubt that there'll ever be
another fight like it. All those Indians, and so few white men up against them. But the soldiers fought smarter, and so they survived.”

Several men had grabbed shovels from wagon beds while Carlyle was talking. As soon as he stopped, they began digging frantically around the base of the surviving walls. “What are they doing?” McLendon asked.

Carlyle sent a lazy arc of tobacco juice in the direction of the diggers. “Oh, there's said to be some kind of treasure buried here. Not so, of course. But some will believe anything.”

McLendon walked over to Billy. “Is this where we're going to make permanent camp?”

“I'd like to, if nothing else than to honor old Kit Carson. But look around—still no decent grazing. I think we're close to the right place, though.”

Billy called everyone together. “For the moment, let's keep all the wagons and livestock right here,” he said. “What I'd like is, let's have some scouts, maybe three or four to the bunch, spread out and take a long look around, maybe to the north a bit. There seem to be some streams running off that way. Remember, we want grass and some timber as well as water. We've come so far, let's be certain to pick just the right place.”

Riders set off, Bat Masterson among them. The teamsters fed their animals oats from barrels. Some of the men kept digging; no one found treasure. After a few hours, the scouts began drifting back. One bunch, led by Billy's head skinner Mike McCabe, was excited. They swore that they'd found the perfect spot not a mile and a half away. Their enthusiasm was contagious. Everyone wanted to go and see. Billy passed the word to get ready to move, and after a hasty lunch of jerky and canteen water, the caravan set out. They passed through some low hills, topped a rise, and there, ahead of them, was a lovely long meadow framed by higher hills and, off to the north, a flat-topped mesa. A rippling stream
helped form a natural boundary to the north and west. There was another to the south, and along the banks of the streams grew clusters of trees. Even McLendon could tell it was an idyllic spot. Some of the men cheered. Billy, grinning so hard that it seemed his face might split, announced what everyone knew already.

“We've arrived, boys!” he shouted. “Look around at your new home.”

“What shall we call it, Billy?” someone asked.

“I have just the name,” Billy said. “Let's show our respect for the ones who came before us and tried to settle in not a mile from here. In their memory, I say welcome to the new Adobe Walls, and may our luck be better than theirs.”

Q
uanah was arguing with Wickeah when the Kiowa rode into the Quahadi camp and stood outside Quanah's tipi, calling for him to come out and talk with them. He was grateful for the interruption. The argument was a foolish one and entirely the fault of his wife. Wickeah always expected a great deal of Quanah's time and attention, so she bitterly resented his trips from the village with Isatai. Ever since he'd returned from the visit to the Cheyenne camp, she'd been particularly irritable, claiming that he never thought about her anymore. It was true that he was constantly preoccupied. He had to think of some way to make the Kiowa and Cheyenne believe that if they fought together with the People and drove off the whites, then afterward they would be considered equals. And, as well, Isatai was a constant concern. The fat man truly believed that he was the spokesman of the spirits, and was liable to say foolish things if Quanah wasn't constantly on hand to stop him. In particular, he kept insisting that no one kill any skunks, because skunks were precious to the spirits. Such prattling detracted from the dignified Spirit Messenger pose that Quanah wanted Isatai to maintain in public.
If he gabbled about skunks too much, everyone might be reminded why Isatai had once been the camp laughingstock.

Collectively, these concerns were already too much for anyone but the strongest man to bear, and Quanah was doing his best. How dare Wickeah add to his burdens? Maybe he often did imagine himself with Mochi instead of Wickeah when they coupled in their blankets, and perhaps he seldom spoke to her anymore because he was so worn down from his other responsibilities. She was his wife and should sympathize. He told Wickeah that it was her obligation to make him feel better, not worse. But she turned that around and insisted that husbands had to make their wives happy too. She was loudly insisting on this when the Kiowa arrived.

Quanah called to them, “I'll be right there.” Though he had no idea what they wanted, he was relieved to have an excuse to escape Wickeah. She was a very stubborn woman and could argue for hours when given the opportunity, especially since she knew her husband was tenderhearted and would never beat her.

“Let the Kiowa wait,” she snapped. “Put your wife first for a change.”

“Enough,” Quanah said, trying to sound commanding. Wickeah, fists jammed on her hips, glared as he ducked down through the tipi's entrance flap.

Five Kiowa awaited Quanah. He recognized one of them. Iseeo was a hotheaded young warrior who often counted impressive coup in battle. “Welcome,” Quanah said. “Do you bring a message from your chief, Lone Wolf? Are you ready to join us in the great fight to come?”

“No, we have news of white hunters who have come into our land,” Iseeo said. “We thought we should inform the Comanche's Spirit Messenger at once, and learn his thoughts about it.”

“He's communicating with the spirits right now,” Quanah said
carefully. In fact, he felt sure that Isatai was either gorging himself on food brought to him by camp admirers or else asleep. But the Kiowa didn't need to know that. “You and I can talk about this, Iseeo. You others, if you'll go inside my tipi, my wife will have food for you.” This was common courtesy, and an easy offer for Quanah to make. No matter how angry she might be with her husband, Wickeah was always a gracious hostess who would find something to serve guests.

Quanah and Iseeo wandered out of camp toward the Quahadi horse herd. “So what is there to tell about these white hunters?” Quanah asked. “It's no surprise that some have come down here. With the cold season over and the buffalo on their way, what did you expect? Don't you think we have more important concerns?”

“These hunters are different,” Iseeo said. “We first saw them five days ago, coming south. There were many of them, ten times at least the number of fingers on your hands, and almost that many wagons. Next to the soldiers following Bad Hand into battle, I have never seen so many white men riding together. My four friends and I went right up to them and let them think we wanted gifts, which they gave us. What they call coffee, and also the sweet white powder. And that was when we counted them, and saw their guns.”

“These were good guns?” Quanah asked, thinking of the old, battered weapons carried by the three hunters he'd recently killed.

“Yes,” Iseeo said grimly. “They were the new long guns that shoot straight and far. All of them had those, or at least the small guns they carry on their belts. And in the wagons—every kind of food, and all sorts of other things.”

“But they gave you gifts and didn't threaten you?”

“No, they acted like superior beings and not in the least afraid. As we left, we bent over and showed them our bare asses just to see what they
would do. We knew we could outrun them if we had to. But they didn't do anything. Of course, after that we followed them, and didn't let them see us.”

“They kept coming south?”

“Yes. And at the mouth of the river by the deep canyon, they stopped and camped for the night with another small party of hunters who'd been there all through the cold months. You probably know the ones. They're led by two men with long face hair down almost to their bellies. We've been watching them and expect to kill them soon. There was much rejoicing when the big party of hunters arrived—I think they knew each other and were friends. But the next morning, the big party left, still coming south, and now they are camped in a meadow not far from the Great River. It's also near the place of the old walls. You know the one, where some seasons ago my people and yours lost a fight to white soldiers with guns on wheels.”

“We didn't lose,” Quanah said. “The white soldiers ran away after it got dark. But that's not important. So this big party of white hunters has made a camp?”

Iseeo nodded. “I think they mean to stay. They're building their usual tipis of wood.”

Quanah thought for a moment. “Iseeo, you were right to come and share this news. I'll repeat it to the Spirit Messenger.”

“Can't I see him?” Iseeo asked plaintively. “I hoped he would give me a blessing.”

“I'm sorry, but he can't be disturbed when he's talking to the spirits. I'll tell him about this good thing you've done, though if you really want his blessing, convince your chief to join in the great fight with us. That's what the spirits command.”

“I'm trying. Lone Wolf says that you Comanche don't respect the Kiowa.”

“Fight with us. That will assure our respect. Gather your friends, go back to your village, and tell this to Lone Wolf. We need his decision soon.”

•   •   •

A
FTER THE FIVE
K
IOWA
rode away, Quanah went to Isatai's tipi. As he expected, the fat man was sprawled out snoring on his blankets. Both of his old, ugly wives squatted nearby, sorting through the latest presents brought by the other Quahadi. Some were small trinkets—beads and ribbons—but most of the tributes were varieties of food. Someone had just killed a deer, and given Isatai a haunch. There were corn cakes and fruit jellies and also several skinned rabbits. The villagers felt that such an important Spirit Messenger shouldn't have to waste his time hunting.

The wives gestured for Quanah to let their husband alone, but he shook him awake anyway. “Come on. We have something to do.”

Isatai protested, “Let me alone, I'm tired.” His voice was thick with sleep. “Maybe I was receiving a message from the spirits in a dream.”

“Well, were you?”

Isatai rubbed his eyes. “I can't remember now. Why are you bothering me?”

“Some Kiowa came to the village. They told me about a big new camp of white hunters near the Great River, close to those old ruined walls. We need to go see.”

It took a while to get Isatai up and out of the tipi. He wanted to eat first, and then he had to apply new face paint, which he said demonstrated respect for the spirits. Quanah waited impatiently. He hadn't been out of the village for several days as he waited for word from Lone Wolf of the Kiowa and Gray Beard of the Cheyenne. He hated any sense of being hemmed in, and he always felt that way if he stayed in
camp too long. It would have been simpler to go spy on the newly arrived whites by himself, but he couldn't depend on Isatai not to say or do something foolish while he was away. It was better to drag the pompous fool along.

They packed some food, because they knew they would be gone overnight. Quanah didn't inform Wickeah that he was leaving. Let her wonder if maybe he'd gotten so tired of her sharp tongue that he was deserting her for good. Wickeah's unwomanly assertiveness, Quanah thought, compared unfavorably to high-spirited Mochi's attitude. Mochi could fight better than most men, but she still deferred to her husband, Medicine Water, as a respectful wife should. Soon, maybe, Mochi would set a proper example in Wickeah's own tipi.

•   •   •

I
T TOOK A FULL DAY
to reach the ruins that marked the old battle site. Isatai hummed most of the way. When they stopped for a meal and a few hours' sleep, he complained about the pemmican that Quanah had brought. “There was some tasty fresh venison in my tent. You could have brought that.”

“Eat what we have.”

“You shouldn't speak so rudely to me. I'm the Spirit Messenger and deserve respect.”

Quanah struggled to keep his temper in check. It was important to keep Isatai placated and cooperative. “Forgive me. I'm worried about the Kiowa. I believe the Cheyenne will be with us, but we need the Kiowa too.”

Despite his complaints about the pemmican, Isatai gobbled it down. “The Kiowa will join us. Buffalo Hump's spirit says so.”

“Does Buffalo Hump's spirit explain how to make certain that happens?”

Isatai stopped chewing, closed his eyes, and hummed. “All right. The spirit says, dance.”

“What?”

Isatai opened his eyes and shook his head. “Sometimes the spirit just says a word or two and that's the message.”

“Can you ask him to tell us more?”

“No, I think the spirit feels that you have your answer.”

“Dance,” Quanah said. “The spirit wants me to dance, and then the Kiowa will do what we want?”

“I don't know. This message was for you and not me, so you have to interpret and obey it.” Isatai resumed stuffing his mouth with pemmican.

•   •   •

A
FTER THEY REACHED
the battle site, it was easy to track the white hunting party. They had made no attempt to cover their tracks—there were the marks of wagon wheels and many hoofprints, all going north. Quanah and Isatai carefully used the rolling hills to hide themselves from any scouts the white hunters might have left behind. They soon reached some streams emanating from the Great River and followed the most promising one. Almost immediately, they heard sounds peculiar to white men making permanent camp—pounding and sawing on wood, metal smashing on metal.

The Indians ground-tethered their horses and proceeded on foot. They crept up the side of a medium-sized hill and dropped on their bellies just behind the crest. Peering over, they saw a low grassy meadow rimmed by creeks, other hills, and, almost a mile away on the left, a flat-topped mesa. Down in the bowl of the meadow, swarms of whites were hard at work putting logs and boards in place for three buildings. The two farthest from the hill where Quanah and Isatai watched were medium-sized. Nearest to the Indians, the whites constructed a big
corral. They had many animals down in the valley and obviously needed a place to keep them together. Inside the corral, using part of it as an outer wall, was the skeletal wooden outline of the third building.

“They intend to stay,” Isatai whispered. This was the first sensible observation Quanah had heard him make in many days. “They will build a whole town, maybe.”

Quanah burned at the thought. It was bad enough the hunters came to kill buffalo that belonged by natural right and even white treaty to the People. But now, a town? Such an insult. He forced himself to remain calm. He counted the men in the valley and decided Iseeo the Kiowa was probably right. They numbered about ten times the fingers on his hands, and they moved with the confidence of men who knew what they were doing. Many had the long, dangling hair that identified them as the hunters of buffalo. All had guns close to hand, pistols on their belts, and rifles propped within easy reach. They were clearly on guard, which was only to be expected. These were seasoned fighters, not fools. Quanah studied them carefully, picking out clues to their intentions. Some were digging a well, another sign they meant to stay. In a temporary camp, they would have been content to fetch water from the nearby creeks.

One of the long-haired men walked away into the high grass to take a shit. A red dog romped along behind him. Both the animal and the man looked familiar, and then Quanah remembered. This was the young man he'd seen many months earlier, the one scouting for buffalo sign. The longhair squatted with his pants tangled around his boots; Quanah thought he could probably rush him and cut his throat, but there was also the dog to consider. It might scent him, start barking, and then the rest of the whites would come after him. Quanah could easily escape, but Isatai wouldn't. Killing this longhair would have to wait for another time.

“Can we go back now?” Isatai asked. “We've seen the white men. I want some of the good food back in my tipi.”

“I want to watch a while longer,” Quanah said. “You can go back down the hill and wait by the horses. There's more pemmican in the pack on my pony. Why don't you go eat some, then keep watch on our mounts. Alert me if any whites are coming that way.”

For the rest of the day, Quanah watched the activity down in the meadow. Most of what he saw was to be expected: trees being cut along the banks of the creek and hauled into the white camp, where they were trimmed, cut to size, and used on the buildings. The well was completed, and buckets of water drawn up. Then something astonished Quanah. One of the buildings had sides of logs, which was what he'd expected. But some of the whites hitched a strange-looking machine to a horse team and proceeded to cut out huge chunks of earth and grass. They fashioned these into thick bricks and began piling them all along the wood-frame sides of two buildings, gluing the bricks together with handfuls of mud. Buildings of dirt and grass? Who would want to live in them? It was a very curious thing.