Buffalo Trail (29 page)

“You didn't want us to do this, but you came along like a good friend anyway,” he said.

Despite his misgivings about the attack, Quanah was pleased. “Thank you, but I have a good gun,” he said, patting the stock of his Henry repeater. “Give that one to whoever needs it most.” High Forehead got the second rifle and nodded his thanks to Quanah.

They wrapped the dead men in their blankets, then hid themselves in the shadows for a while, waiting in case the third white hunter came back. When he didn't, some of the Kiowa dragged the bodies back into the open and systematically dismembered them. They laughed among themselves as they severed finger joints and genitals. After they finished, everyone enjoyed some dried fruit and bread that they found in the dead men's packs. By then it was almost dawn, and Bear Mountain reminded the others that they wanted to attack another small camp.

“Soon the buffalo will start moving, and then we won't have to worry about noise,” he said.

•   •   •

T
HERE WERE FOUR MEN
in the second group of victims. The raiders crept up on them quietly, but they could have been noisy and the whites still would never have noticed, so obsessed were they in killing and skinning buffalo. Two of them fired rifles, one ran to where the buffalo fell and skinned them, and the fourth, a very heavy man, carried the skins to a wagon. Quanah had never actually seen the white hide men at work and he found it interesting. There was no wasted time or motion—they were just as efficient as Indian women. The hides were removed with a minimum of fuss. He could have watched for a long time, but the Kiowa were impatient to kill again. Bear Mountain was just about to give the signal to attack when the wagon bed became full of hides and two of the white men, the heavy man and a skinner, began talking loudly, though not quite arguing, beside it. After a few moments the heavy man laughed and the skinner got up on the wagon, shook the reins, and urged the two-mule team forward. Some of the Kiowa twitched, but Bear Mountain held up a cautioning hand:
Let that one go.
The heavy man was picking at something on the bottom of his boot, but the other two remaining white men still had their rifles in hand and were looking back at the wagon as it rattled away. If the raiders charged at that moment, they would overwhelm the whites, but probably not before the riflemen got off shots. It was better to let the white man on the wagon get away than to have any warriors severely wounded or killed. There were always more white men to replace any that fell in battle. The Indians did not share that luxury.

When the wagon was out of sight, the white shooters laid their guns aside. As soon as they did, the raiders burst from cover, shrieking and brandishing lances, knives, and war clubs. Quanah and Lone Wolf again stayed back. The white shooters went down fast, gore gushing from
dozens of wounds. The heavy man took longer because the Kiowa played with him, leaning in to prick his body with knife- and spearpoints. Mostly he screamed, but sometimes he yelled a strange-sounding word, “Bruddas,” over and over. Finally Man Who Walks Above the Ground tired of the sport and rammed his lance through the heavy man's heart, having to push hard because the chest wall was so thick. Then all three dead men were scalped and mutilated. High Forehead, yelping with glee, tore a branch from a tree, sharpened one end to a point, and pushed the branch up the anus of one of the shooters. The point eventually emerged from his belly. They took the guns—two very good rifles, one older one, and four pistols—as well as some canned goods and blankets. The canned goods were special prizes. Back in the Quahadi village, they would be opened and whatever juice was inside would be shared around. Then the cans themselves would be cut up and the sharp metal pieces used for arrow points. Lone Wolf found a wooden device with four taut strings along one side and up the handle, and also a long, thin thing that looked like a bow, but one too fragile to shoot an arrow. The four strings on the wood thing made pretty sounds when they pulled at them. Everyone wanted the wood thing. Lone Wolf kept it for himself.

“Was that enough?” Quanah asked Bear Mountain as they rode back west.

The Kiowa smiled. “Enough for now,” he said.

T
he Billy Dixon crew moved its camp north of the Canadian. For several days they enjoyed the finest shooting yet. The buffalo herd was expansive, more than a dozen miles in length. The hides they took were thick and relatively unscarred. At night the sky was clear, and they drank coffee and gorged themselves on Frenchy's fine cooking. One night Charley Armitage walked out to take a shit and came back with several plump quail. He said they came up near where he was squatting and practically begged to be shot. Frenchy served them with boiled greens, and there were canned peaches for dessert.

As much as Cash McLendon wanted to be on his way to Arizona Territory and Gabrielle, he still found himself enjoying the hunt, mostly because he was making fine money. With Billy and Charley knocking down a buff with every shot, and with Bat and himself killing seven or eight each day, McLendon averaged twenty dollars a day. He calculated that by mid-July he would have enough to quit, hitch a ride back to Dodge on one of the freight wagons, then travel by train and stage to Mountain View. Billy would understand, he felt certain.

On June eleventh they had enough hides to overflow the wagon bed. Billy said that he'd run them back to Adobe Walls. “You come with me,
C.M.,” he said. “Two of us can get the wagon unloaded quicker. We'll take a nice meal from Old Man Keeler or Mrs. Olds, enjoy some fellowship in Hanrahan's saloon, then set out on the return trip at daylight. We'll be back here in camp by mid-afternoon.”

“You ought to take me instead, Billy,” Bat argued. “I'm far more sociable than McLendon, and I'm eager for a drink besides.”

“No, you'd end up talking so much that I'd waste additional hours tearing you away from conversations. I mean this to be a reasonably prompt trip there and back.”

Billy and McLendon set out, with Fannie the red setter trotting alongside. Billy put his Sharps Big Fifty in the wagon bed, and McLendon did the same with the older rifle that Billy had lent him. McLendon had his Colt in a holster on his belt, and had his razor-sharp skinning knife too. Billy took up the reins of the two-mule team. It was a hot day, and McLendon felt sweat trickling down his chest and sides underneath his shirt. Billy didn't seem especially talkative, and McLendon didn't mind. He'd decided to send another letter to Gabrielle, this one promising to be in Mountain View by the end of July, or early August at the latest. McLendon was mentally composing just the right romantic message when Billy said, “Lord, look at the water rush in the Canadian.”

When they'd moved the camp north of the river, they found a relatively shallow spot to cross. But now the water was deeper, and there was rippling evidence of a fast current.

“We try to ford it here, this wagon's liable to tip over,” Billy said. “We best go along a bit farther, see if there isn't a better place.”

They picked their way along the river for another mile or so, but didn't find a place that looked more promising.

“Well, damn,” Billy said. “What do you think, C.M.? Shall we attempt it?”

McLendon didn't think so. He remembered the cow that had been
caught in quicksand on the trip down from Dodge City, and it seemed to him that the swirling current was suspiciously flecked with dirt. But before he could reply, there was the sound of hoofbeats, and two riders raced into sight.

“It's Jim McKinley and Dutch Henry,” Billy said. “Those two hate each other. If they're riding together, something's happened.”

It had. McKinley and Henry said word had reached Adobe Walls that one of the scattered white hunting parties had been slaughtered by Indians.

“Joe Plummer left their camp to bring a load of hides in to sell,” McKinley said. “Joe goes back and finds the other three in the crew all cut up to hell.”

“Left in pieces is what they were,” Dutch Henry added. “Joe says it was so cruel that he was too repulsed to vomit.”

“Wait a minute,” McLendon said. “Joe Plummer—was he with Tommy Wallace and Dave Dudley? Does that mean that Mirkle Jones—”

“Yep,” McKinley said sorrowfully. “That fat Creole was just the finest fiddler. But they carved him up, too, Joe reports. A few of the boys have gone out with Joe to collect what remains that they can, so we can give them a decent burial. Dutch Henry and me are trying to find all the outlying camps to spread the warning.”

“Everybody needs to come in,” Billy said. “If the Indians are on the attack, we're better off sticking together.”

“Jim Hanrahan says perhaps not,” Dutch Henry said. “Jim's thinking is, if everybody's warned and alert, then maybe there's no need to break off the hunting, what with it being at its peak just now. Plenty of time to come in later if it appears there are Indians in any significant number.”

“That's still to be determined,” Billy said. “C.M. and I need to head on in and dispose of these hides. We don't want to get caught out in
between if any raiding parties are still about. Jim, you and Dutch go on and get the word spread.”

McKinley and Henry galloped off. Billy said to McLendon, “There's no time now for further exploration. We'll cross the river right here. Pull Fannie up into the wagon and then hold on tight.”

“Whatever you say.” McLendon was grief-stricken by the news of Mirkle Jones's death, and petrified that some lurking Indian band might be creeping up on them in the brush along the bank.

Billy clucked at the mules and yanked the reins. The braying team balked at the river's edge. McLendon had always found Billy Dixon to be the calmest of men, but now he swore and slapped the reins sharply on the mules' backs. The animals reluctantly plunged into the water, and the wagon dropped in behind them. As soon as it did, McClendon felt the conveyance tugged hard by the current. “Keep
going
!” Billy shouted at the mules, and Fannie added a series of panicked yelps from the wagon bed. The river was about twenty yards wide, and they were almost halfway, when one of the mules lost its footing and collapsed with a splash. The other mule lost momentum and stumbled, briefly disappearing under the water. As both mules struggled desperately to get back up, the wagon tipped precipitously. Billy and McLendon tried to keep their balance, but couldn't.

“It's going over—jump!” Billy yelled, and they did. McLendon was surprised that the river was so cold on such a hot day. His boots hit the sandy bottom and he pulled them up quickly, fearing quicksand more than drowning. He found solid footing and stood up. “Use your knife to cut the mules free,” Billy called, and McLendon tried. He got one cut loose and it worked its way to the south bank. The second mule's eyes were wide with hysteria, and it jerked its head from side to side. The water was up to McLendon's chest as he waded to the stricken animal, grabbing at its harness. His left foot hit soft sand and he felt his boot
being sucked down. Involuntarily wailing in panic, he tried to extricate his boot but couldn't. Taking a breath, he plunged his face below the surface, reached down, and yanked his foot out of the boot. Then he cut the second mule loose and hung on to its bridle as the long-eared beast pulled them both to the south riverbank. Fannie met them there, barking loudly. Then the mule that had pulled McLendon clear heaved a great sigh and dropped dead.

McLendon lay on the bank, trying to catch his breath. After a moment he remembered Billy Dixon and looked for him. Billy was still in the river, frantically yanking at the part of the capsized wagon still above the surface.

“Help me, C.M. We got to get the rifles out of there if we can!” he yelled, and McLendon reluctantly went back into the water. But try as they might, they couldn't retrieve the weapons, which apparently had been swallowed up by the sand of the riverbed.

“We lost the hides, but that's a small thing,” Billy said when they'd finally given up and climbed out onto the Canadian's south bank. “The guns are what matter if there's fighting ahead. After we clean and dry your Colt, I expect that it'll work again. We don't have time to do it now, and even if we did, all your ammunition is soaked and ruined. Should the Indians fall upon us now, we'd have to throw rocks. Come on, we'll ride double into Adobe Walls on our surviving mule.” McLendon had trouble staying in the saddle of a well-trained horse. The six- or seven-mile ride to Adobe Walls seated behind Billy Dixon on the bony spine of a nervous, irascible mule was agonizing, but at least they didn't encounter any Indians.

•   •   •

A
DOBE
W
ALLS WAS
in an uproar when they arrived. Dozens of men, all shouting and gesticulating, were gathered in front of the Myers and
Leonard store. Billy hopped down from the mule; McLendon, crotch and ass aching, gently eased himself to the ground. He limped behind Billy, who shouted to Brick Bond, “Is there fresh information on the killings?”

“Anderson Moore just rode in,” Bond said. “He reports finding his partners butchered.”

“Anderson Moore?” Billy asked. “I thought it was Joe Plummer who discovered them.”

“That's yesterday's news,” Bond said grimly. “Dave Dudley and Mirkle Jones and Tommy Wallace were the ones Plummer found. No, there's been a second attack. Moore rode off from his camp night before last, looking to fetch up with Sam Smith's crew and enjoy some card playing. Billy Muhler and Antelope Jack Jones, the two Moore was camped with, considered themselves too Christian to play a few hands of poker. So Moore rides back to their camp the next day and finds them just tore to pieces. Goddamn Indians actually poked a stick up Antelope Jack's ass 'til the pointy end come out his throat. Some of the boys is fixing to head back there, try to clean up what's left of the bodies, and get them properly in the ground.”

“C.M. and me are going to get some guns and shells, then turn right around and go fetch the rest of our crew, if in fact they aren't already on their way back here,” Billy said. “We passed Dutch Henry and Jim McKinley on the way in. They were bent on informing all the outlying camps.”

Inside the store, Fred Leonard was busy selling guns and ammunition. Billy grabbed McLendon's arm and dragged him to the counter. He told Leonard that they each needed a Sharps Big Fifty and a box of shells. McLendon needed new boots.

“That would run you about eighty dollars each for the rifles, and another ten for the ammunition, Billy,” Leonard said. “McLendon, the
boots is seven dollars. You'll both understand that I require payment in cash.”

“Fred, I've surely got several thousand dollars in credit with you,” Billy said. “My crew's brought in three loads of fine hides, and you've purchased them and entered the transaction in your books.”

Leonard shook his head. “In light of the current situation and also the present demand for weaponry, I'm not selling anything against accrued credit just now. Should the decision be made for all of us to flee, some of my ledgers might be lost and then there's no accounting for credit balances. Unless you've got actual money, Billy, please step aside. I've got cash customers standing behind you.”

McLendon thought the veins in Billy's neck would burst. He roared,
“I got to go bring in my crew, and you deny me the means to protect myself and them, if necessary?”

Leonard looked past him and said, “Next.”

Billy was about to lunge, but McLendon stepped in front of him. “Billy, arguing will only waste time. We've got to get back to the others. Look, I've got cash money—not much, but some.” He fished in his pocket and extracted some soggy bills: seventy-six dollars all told. He hated giving up even a penny, but he handed the bills to Billy. “See what Andy Johnson or Jim Langton over at the Rath store will give you for this.”

Langton sold Billy a secondhand .44 caliber Sharps and twenty shells. McLendon got some serviceable footwear. After making the purchases, they briefly ducked back into Myers and Leonard's store. “One day soon, we'll discuss this, Fred,” Billy said. “Meanwhile, be damned straight to hell.” He and McLendon got some bread and bacon from Old Man Keeler, who didn't charge them a cent, then went to the stables and saddled two of the extra horses that Billy had stabled there. They were shocked to see Brick Bond saddling up too.

“You might need another gun,” he said. “My crew is in here safe, so let's go collect yours.”

“I thought he said he'd never come back to Adobe Walls again,” McLendon whispered. “Guess the Indians changed his mind.”

“Don't provoke him,” Billy whispered back. He said loudly, “Thank you, Bond. This is a fine thing.”

They raced back east along the Canadian, gnawing makeshift bacon sandwiches as they rode.

•   •   •

B
AT
M
ASTERSON
, Frenchy, Mike McCabe, and Charley Armitage were surprised when Dixon, McLendon, and Bond came clattering into the camp. They said they'd been shooting and skinning buffalo. Nobody had come to warn them about Indian attacks.

“Maybe the Indians got Dutch Henry and Jim McKinley too,” Frenchy said.

“More likely they just went around to the crews that they found and missed some,” Billy said. “All right, our wagon was lost in the Canadian, so take what you can carry while mounted and let's be going.”

“Christ Jesus, Billy, we got about a hundred fresh hides perfect for selling,” McCabe said. “Let me stay with them. When you get back to Adobe Walls, send another wagon out this way.”

“I know how you like to argue, Mike, but this is no time for it,” Billy said. “Leave the hides stacked as they are. Maybe if this blows over, we can come back for them. Now let's ride.”

•   •   •

T
HE NEXT NIGHT
, some sixty hide men, crew members, and camp merchants gathered in Myers and Leonard's because it was the biggest Adobe Walls building. Jim Hanrahan led the meeting.