Buffalo Trail (28 page)

“They could bring five dollars a turn, easy,” Johnson said.

“Last night Bat told me that he's so desperate, he'd pay a hundred dollars for a woman,” McLendon said.

“Well, then, maybe I'll charge six. The problem will be finding acceptable whores willing to rough it out here. The diseased ones would come readily, but I doubt the boys would thank me if their peckers fell off.”

•   •   •

O
N
J
UNE EIGHTH
, Jim Hanrahan and some teamsters returned from a trip to Dodge with fresh supplies and news that was possible cause for concern.

“Maybe seventy-five miles out, a bunch of Indians came at us,” Hanrahan said. “I guess there were a dozen. Looked like Kiowa. We had enough guns to drive them off. It seemed more like they were testing us rather than mounting a serious attack.”

“It looked pretty damn serious to me,” said Billy Tyler, one of the teamsters. “Any time an Indian looses an arrow or bullet in my direction, I feel properly threatened.”

“If it's just an isolated incident, I don't think it's anything of real consequence,” Hanrahan said. “We still haven't seen any Indians in this camp's vicinity.”

Billy Dixon, standing next to McLendon, said that he'd pass the word about the attack to everyone in the area.

“We all need to be alert anyway,” he said.

“Try not to raise unnecessary alarm, Billy,” Hanrahan cautioned. “Some are too jumpy to begin with. You know how, with that comet, a few of the more superstitious boys thought it was a sign from God that we were in the wrong place and ought to leave pronto. I'm glad it burned out after a few nights. Hey, we're all doing well here. As for you and me, this partnership is particularly profitable. Don't be messing things up with too much Indian talk.”

“No life is worth any amount of money, Jim.”

“I know. I know.”

•   •   •

B
ILLY
'
S CREW SPENT
that night in Adobe Walls. McLendon stayed up late. He'd just figured out why screwdrivers were sold in tandem with the Colt Peacemakers. The six-gun's trigger guard was held in place by a series of small screws that gradually loosened. They periodically needed tightening, especially after long days in the saddle or other spells of physical activity. So McLendon wielded his screwdriver in a corner of Hanrahan's saloon, squinting in the light of a flickering candle. Hanrahan sat in the doorway smoking a cigar. Everyone else was outside, sleeping under wagons or in blankets spread out on the ground. In this warm weather, it was too stuffy in the buildings to sleep inside.

There was a quiet crunch of boots on pebbles. McLendon, bent over his gun, heard J. W. Mooar, who'd come into camp late that evening, speaking softly to Hanrahan.

“Indians, like you said. They didn't jump us, but they were watching.”

“Kiowa? This is somewhat south for them.”

“Shit, these were Comanche.”

“Keep quiet about this. We can't have everybody running off.”

“If I do, what's in it for me?”

“Two twenty-five a hide instead of two. I'll pay the extra two bits out of my own pocket.”

“Four bits, not two.”

“You're a bastard, Mooar.”

Mooar chuckled. “Never said I wasn't. But I'll keep mum.”

•   •   •

O
N THE MORNING
of June ninth, as the Dixon crew prepared to head out again, McLendon told Billy what he'd heard. Billy looked troubled and said, “All right. Let me take this into consideration. I know it sounded bad, but likely Jim Hanrahan's trying to look after everyone's best interests. Still, let me go have a quick word with him.”

A few minutes later, Billy was back. “It's as I thought. Jim doesn't feel there's reason to get everybody bothered. We're all making good money, and if one Indian attack far from here and one glimpse somewhat closer is the extent of it, then we're not in any particular danger. Hell, we knew the Indians had to be around somewhere. Jim said he knows what J. W. Mooar is like: he'd exaggerate those Comanche he saw until we all thought there were a thousand red men about to descend upon us. So he's going to pay Mooar a few pennies extra for hides to keep his trap shut. He hates the additional expense, but in the end it's good business. Rest easy, C.M. If we're reasonably watchful, there's probably no cause for concern.”

T
he tribal alliance was unwieldy from the start. The Kiowa and Cheyenne chiefs indicated to Quanah at the sun dance that if their tribes joined in the great attack, their warriors would first have to return to their home villages and prepare themselves for war. Arrows had to be fashioned, knives honed, war paint mixed, and all available ammunition collected. When properly equipped, the Kiowa and Cheyenne would come back south and meet Quanah and the fighting men of the People along the Canadian near the white hunters' camp. This was why, after Quanah suggested it was the wish of the spirits, Isatai delayed the assault on the white hunters' big camp until the next full moon.

But as soon as the allied tribes departed for home and the People returned to their various villages, Quanah realized that he had made a mistake. Almost immediately, most of the Nokoni men changed their mind about participating. One told Quanah, “Those other tribes aren't our equals. It was disgusting to hear you address them as brothers.” Half of the Yamparika who promised to return never did. Nobody among that branch of the People ever had the stomach to fight well anyway, Quanah thought sourly. They were cowards. At least the Nokoni stayed away out of principle.

Word reached him from the north that many Kiowa were having second thoughts. Quanah immediately rode to see Lone Wolf and Satanta. The problem, they told him, was not that the Kiowa men didn't want to kill white men. They did, very much. In fact, the Comanche sun dance had so inflamed the fighting instincts of the Kiowa braves that they couldn't wait until the next full moon. Several war parties had already formed with the intent of finding and attacking any white wagon trains or smaller hunting camps that appeared vulnerable.

“You can't allow that,” Quanah protested. “We want the hunters in the big white camp to think that they are in no danger from us. That way, when we make our attack, they'll be surprised.”

“If our young men want to fight, they will, even if it isn't what you want them to do,” Satanta said. “Talk to them if you want. I don't think you can change their minds.”

Quanah tried. He called the Kiowa warriors together and explained why they should wait. Responding for their tribesmen, High Forehead and Buffalo with Holes in His Ears replied that they had agreed to join the People and the Cheyenne in one fight, but that didn't mean they were giving up their right to fight on their own as well.

“Your Spirit Messenger says he's been given magic so we can win the fight at the big camp easily,” High Forehead said. “If the spirits already promise us victory there, what does it matter if we kill some more whites before that?”

This was a question that Quanah couldn't answer. He waited nervously with Lone Wolf and Satanta while a Kiowa war party of about a dozen warriors rode out. They'd heard that wagons loaded with supplies had left the white town above the main treaty river and were coming south, probably with supplies for the big white hunting camp. The Kiowa meant to intercept the wagons, kill all the white men, and take the supplies. They hoped their booty would include good guns and lots
of ammunition. Most of the firearms carried by the Kiowa were essentially useless—ancient muzzle-loaders and antiquated pistols. None of the warriors had more than a few bullets.

But the raiders returned empty-handed. They'd ambushed the wagons as planned, but the white men all had the rifles that shot long and straight, so the Kiowa couldn't get close enough. In retrospect, they should have waited to attack at night, when most of the white men would have been asleep.

“That's our plan at the full moon when we fall on the big white hunting camp,” Quanah said. “If you'll only be patient, after we kill everyone there, you can take their guns for yourselves.”

“Yes, we'll take their guns, but until then I don't want to be patient,” said Bear Mountain, a Kiowa who honored Satanta by blowing a bugle as he rode into battle. “Any white man I see, I'm going to kill.”

Iseeo, who hadn't joined the raiders in the attack on the wagon train, supported Quanah. “At the Comanche's sun dance, we all heard the words of the Spirit Messenger. We should trust him and trust Quanah.”

“Trust who you want,” Bear Mountain said. “I promised I'd fight with them at the white hunting camp, and I will. But otherwise, they're not my leaders.”

Lone Wolf and Satanta told Quanah that he should go. When the time for the attack on the white camp neared, they would bring the Kiowa warriors south. Until then, they'd do what they could to keep their young men under control.

•   •   •

N
OW VERY WORRIED
, Quanah went to the Cheyenne camp, where, to his relief, things seemed better. The chiefs assured him that Medicine Water and the dog soldiers were maintaining strict discipline.

“None of our warriors will fight too early,” Gray Beard assured him. “If they try to, they will have to fight the dog soldiers instead, and none of them want to do that.”

“The Cheyenne have wisdom,” Quanah said, feeling and sounding grateful. “If we win the fight with the white hunters, most of the glory will be yours.”

“Others can have the glory. What we want afterward are the white hunters' guns, because they are so much better than the ones we have.”

“You'll have them all,” Quanah promised. “No one among the People or the Kiowa will get any. Every one of the white guns will belong to the Cheyenne.”

•   •   •

T
HOUGH HE
'
D HAD DO
UBTS
regarding the Cheyenne, the Kiowa, and even some of the bands of the People, Quanah was certain he could count on his own Quahadi to show sense and leave the whites alone until the great attack. But when he returned to his village, he was disgusted to learn that some Quahadi braves had also gone out on a raid. Fortunately, they scouted the white hunting party they encountered instead of attacking on the spot. They decided that there were too many guns among the hunters and rode away.

“Did they see you?” Quanah demanded as he angrily confronted Wild Horse, the warrior who'd led the would-be raiders.

“I suppose so,” Wild Horse said. “We were on a hill about five or six bowshots away.”

“You met them too close to the big white camp. They probably rode back there and warned them.”

“So what? Isatai's spirit magic is going to let us kill everyone there anyway.”

•   •   •

Q
UANAH
'
S INFLUE
NCE
was now such among the Quahadi that there were no other raids while they waited for the full moon. The days dragged, and then Iseeo rode in to announce that the Kiowa were on their way.

“We didn't think you would be back this early,” Quanah said. “There is still some time before the full moon.”

“Too many of our warriors are impatient,” Iseeo said. “They didn't want to wait and started talking about attacking the big village whites call Dodge instead of waiting to fight with you at the hunters' camp. So Lone Wolf and Satanta decided to bring them down here now.”

“How many warriors are coming?”

Iseeo flexed all of his fingers a dozen times. “That many, perhaps a few more.”

“What happened to the rest? We need every man.”

“They decided that they liked making little fights, not one big one. Lone Wolf argued with them.”

“What about Satanta? Did he try to persuade them?”

“He said that each warrior had to do what he thought best. If they didn't want to come fight beside the Comanche, they shouldn't. But when Bear Mountain asked Satanta if he was going, Satanta said that he was, and then Bear Mountain said all right, he would come too. So Satanta helped you.”

•   •   •

T
HE
K
IOWA CAMPED
near the Quahadi village. At night they sat around their campfires and drank whiskey. Quanah thought that they drank too much. He spoke to Lone Wolf and Satanta about it. They told him that he
should be happy their warriors were getting drunk. When they woke up in the mornings feeling soreheaded and queasy, it kept them from riding out, looking for trouble. Since the buffalo had arrived in the area, lots of small hunting parties left the white camp for days at a time, and these parties were the traditional targets of Kiowa raids.

“Many of our men don't want to wait for the big fight,” Lone Wolf said. “You saw that for yourself when you came to our village. Now every day they're close to the small groups of white hunters who think only of killing buffalo, not of keeping watch for us. Of course, they are tempted. Aren't you?”

“I control myself,” Quanah said. “Why can't the Kiowa do the same?”

Lone Wolf's eyebrows arched. “Are you saying that Comanche are better?”

“No, I just don't want our plan to be spoiled.”

“Be sure to remember that it is
our
plan, that it belongs to all of us. But the white hunters' guns will belong to the Kiowa.”

•   •   •

A
FEW DAYS LATER
, Lone Wolf and Satanta told Quanah that they needed to talk. Some of their young braves insisted on forming a war party to attack one of the small bands of white hunters who slept at night away from the main camp.

“There will only be four or five white men, probably, easy to kill,” Lone Wolf said. “That will let the most eager young men get some scalps. I think it will keep them happy until it's time for the big attack.”

“It's a mistake,” Quanah said. “The other white hunters will see what happened and prepare to fight. We need them to think only of the buffalo. Tell your young men not to do this, Lone Wolf.”

“If I tell them that, they will ride back north. You won't have any
Kiowa left, except maybe Iseeo, because he loves your Spirit Messenger so much. We must let them do this small thing, Quanah, if you want their help with the big thing.”

“I'll have Isatai speak to them. Perhaps they'll listen to him.”

The young Kiowa listened politely to Isatai when he told them that the spirits didn't want any premature attacks. Quanah thought that the fat man might have persuaded them, but then he began ranting that besides waiting to kill white hunters, the spirits also commanded that skunks must not be shot. The Kiowa thought that was foolish, and a few of them said so. Isatai was offended and stalked off. After he did, some of the Kiowa daubed on war paint and prepared to leave.

“Will you stop them?” Quanah pleaded to Lone Wolf and Satanta. They shook their heads.

“It would be wise for you to ride along with them, Quanah,” Satanta said. “Lone Wolf is. The young men are going to do this anyway. They'll be pleased to have you and Lone Wolf along. That will make them feel better about following you in the great fight that's coming.”

Quanah saw the sense in that. He put on his own war paint, the black style traditional to the People, and got his Henry rifle. Mounting one of his best horses, he joined the Kiowa as they rode southeast.

•   •   •

T
HE SUN WAS SETTING
when the war party approached the buffalo herd. There were scattered
crack
s in the distance—some of the white hunters were getting in last shots.

Bear Mountain had assumed informal command. Now he impressed Quanah by saying, “We need to be careful. I think that there will be several small parties of white hunters all along the river here.” Bear Mountain told everyone else to graze and water their ponies while he
and High Forehead went ahead to scout. It was completely dark when they returned to report that there were four separate groups in small camps within easy riding distance.

“There are plenty of hills between them and the main white camp,” Bear Mountain said. “I don't think the sounds of fighting will be heard all the way there. But when we attack, we don't want the noise to alert the other small camps nearby. So we'll have to kill quietly.”

“But we want to play with them before they die,” complained a Kiowa named Good Talk.

“I know,” Bear Mountain said. “I think maybe we will kill the whites in one of these groups tonight, and then tomorrow, when the buffalo are back on the move and making noise, we'll kill some more and then it won't matter if they scream.”

Quanah wanted to say that killing one of the groups was plenty, but as he took a breath to speak he saw Lone Wolf staring at him. The Kiowa chief shook his head, and Quanah kept silent.

High Forehead and Bear Mountain thought the most likely victims for the night attack were camped farthest below the river. “There were just three of them. But they each had good guns and long hair.” White Goose, the youngest in the war party, stayed behind with the horses while the rest went ahead on foot. It took a while because they had to circle well beyond the other three camps. Finally they saw flickerings of yellow and orange in the distance—campfire flames. The raiders approached with caution, crawling on their bellies over the last yards.

“I only see two,” Quanah hissed to Bear Mountain. “Is the third out standing guard?” Bear Mountain motioned for High Forehead to creep around the entire periphery of the camp. When he came back, he said there was no sign of the third white man.

“I looked in the bushes to see if he'd gone there to shit,” High
Forehead whispered. “But he wasn't anywhere. I think that he must have gone back to their big camp.”

“Then let's kill these two,” Bear Mountain said. At his signal, the raiders rose, rushed the camp, and fell on the white hunters sprawled in their blankets by the fire. Quanah and Lone Wolf lagged behind. In the few extra moments it took them to come up, one of the white men's throats was slit and his heels kicked against the ground in death throes. The other woke up and tried to run. High Forehead caught him and dragged him back to the fire. The white man was too frightened to scream. The only noise was his bootheels dragging in the dirt. High Forehead strangled him. His victim's eyes bulged and he shit himself just before he died. The Indians ripped off the two scalps. Bear Mountain claimed one of the big rifles for himself and handed the other to Quanah.