Buffalo Trail (34 page)

S
ince he was most familiar with the route, Quanah led the war party on its final ride along the river to the white hunters' camp. He followed the creek branching off from the river, and guided the others southeast using the trees and brush along its banks as a screen to avoid detection. There was no talking now. Everyone was anticipating the fight. Quanah insisted that Isatai ride beside him, so that he could cut off the fat Spirit Messenger if he lost control again and began sobbing or babbling.

Bus Isatai was quiet, too, until they reached the edge of the meadow and in the moonlight could just make out the huts of the white hunters. Then he whispered to Quanah, “It is time to make my magic.”

“You already have,” Quanah said. “You've prayed that all the whites will be asleep when we attack. Even if they aren't, you've also made magic so their bullets will pass through us without doing harm.”

“The spirits still require ceremony,” Isatai insisted, and, sighing, Quanah directed the warriors to a place where the high bluff was between them and the white camp.

“Isatai will make magic,” he announced, and quietly cautioned the fat man, “Nothing else about skunks.”

“I leave for a moment to speak to the spirits,” Isatai commanded. “Wait for me to return.” He rode off into the darkness and out of sight. Quanah quietly fumed. It was almost dawn, and the men, especially the young braves, were ready to fight. Then Isatai rode back and all of the warriors gasped.

The Spirit Messenger had stripped naked and now wore only a hat fashioned from sage stems, which were believed to bring wisdom and good luck. He and his horse were both completely yellow; the moonlight reflected off the fresh paint. Isatai's belly and genitals flopped as he got down off his mount and spread his arms wide. He was an impressive though not at all attractive sight.

“The spirits, especially Buffalo Hump, have brought us here,” he said, and Quanah worried that the sound of Isatai's voice might drift down and warn the hunters. “This is a time of great magic. Here is a pot of yellow paint. Everyone come and dip in a finger, then rub the paint over your heart. This will make any bullets from the whites pass right through your body without injury to you. Of course, the white men will probably not fire a single shot, since my magic will make them sleep as you ride up.”

While some of the warriors formed a line and took turns dipping fingers into the yellow paint, others didn't do as Isatai had told them until, in response to a gesture from Gray Beard, Medicine Water and the dog soldiers herded the stragglers along to obey. When everyone had marked themselves with an extra dot of yellow, Isatai blessed them in the name of the spirits and told them to fight well.

By prearrangement, some of the youngest, untested warriors from among the People escorted Isatai and Satanta to the top of the bluff, where they would watch the fight as nonparticipants. The youngsters reluctantly agreed to stay and guard them. They wanted to participate in the battle, but Quanah promised that afterward they would be honored
as much as the men who actually fought. As he followed them, Isatai called back, “Remember—they will all be asleep, like the spirits promised. All of them.”

“Say your final words,” Lone Wolf suggested to Quanah, who offered a general battle plan. With three different tribes participating, it was impossible to attempt anything complicated. So everyone would assemble and, at Quanah's signal, charge around the end of the tree line and into the meadow, spreading out to form a long line with the Kiowa on one wing, the Cheyenne on the other, and the People in the center. Quanah would ride just in front—not as any statement of superiority, he was careful to note, but simply to focus the attack. They would kill all the white men sleeping on the ground and then quickly rush in through the open doors of the huts to finish off anyone inside. It would not take long.

“Don't waste bullets,” Quanah cautioned. “Kill with arrows and lances and knives if you can. After the fight there will be many new guns and too many bullets to count. But no shooting now.”

“Why not?” someone asked. “If we run out of bullets, your Spirit Messenger can belch up some more.”

“We should save all the magic that we can,” Quanah said hastily. “Anything else?”

“Remember to listen for my horn,” Bear Mountain said. “I will make it sing loud.”

Mochi stepped up and tapped Quanah on the chest. “You said that I could ride in front with you.”

“Yes. Let's go. Everyone remain quiet until I begin the charge.” Medicine Water beamed with pride as he watched his warrior wife take her place of honor.

With Quanah and Mochi in the lead, the war party moved to the
edge of the trees on the creek bank. The early moments of dawn provided a pinkish tinge in the sky to the east. It was finally time. Quanah raised his arm and shook his lance above his head. He led the way as they splashed across the creek, and the first exultant war cries echoed across the valley.

A
s he walked alongside Billy Dixon on the way to where the horses grazed, McLendon lost himself in pleasant daydreams about his impending reunion with Gabrielle. When he'd tracked her to Glorious, she hadn't known he was coming, and her greeting was chilly. This time she was expecting him. He could count on at least a warm hug, maybe even a kiss, and after that kiss—

Billy grabbed McLendon's arm, interrupting the enjoyable fantasy. He pointed toward the tree line to the right. “Look there.”

McLendon looked. A line of something emerged from the trees, and at the same time he saw it he felt the ground tremble because there were many things—hooves?—thudding against it. From the corner of his eye McLendon seemed to glimpse Billy Ogg stopping, staring in the same direction, then whirling and running back toward camp. Why?

“Indians!” Ogg shrieked, and Dixon hollered, “We're under attack!” He yanked on McLendon's sleeve. “Run!”

But McLendon hesitated, mesmerized by what was approaching so fast—what looked like an expanding line separating into tightly packed but individual parts, and, yes, those parts were Indians, many, many Indians, all of them painted and feather-bedecked and screaming and
waving weapons, rifles of every variety as well as spears. McLendon would not have imagined that spears could look so menacing. He found himself trying to count the Indians—one, two, three, four—and then came the horrifying sense that he might not know a number high enough.

“Run, you fool!” Dixon shouted again. When McLendon still didn't move, Billy yanked his Sharps .44 to his shoulder and snapped a shot at the approaching horde. Then, with a final pleading glance at McLendon, he turned and ran himself, heading to the buildings behind them. McLendon noticed Billy's dog, Fannie, run off in a different direction into the brush, and realized that he had to run, too, but for some reason his legs were suddenly rubbery and not willing to cooperate. McLendon managed a slight lurch, a minuscule movement toward camp, and Billy Ogg dashed past. He paid no attention to McLendon; his eyes were wide and white-rimmed with panic, and spit flew from his mouth and he wheezed as he ran.

McLendon saw that now the line of Indians was coming closer, perhaps two hundred yards away, and there were so many of them, seemingly from one end of the horizon to another. One end of the line, the left end, seemed to detach itself and flow above camp where the grazing horses were, and also some of the warriors in the center of the line moved that way. McLendon thought,
Good, they're only here to steal the horses,
it was an odd thing how his mind was so nimble and his legs not at all. But only about a third of the Indians went that way. The rest were still bearing down on the camp. There were a few riding in front and these seemed to be racing right at McLendon. It occurred to him that he ought to at least draw his Colt and shoot at them, but his arms were as limp as his legs. In another split second he remembered the horrible torture Indians inflicted on their victims, and that finally gave life to his limbs and he began running, too, harder than ever in his life but not fast
enough, hearing the pounding of hooves behind him, the screams of the Indians—how did they shriek so
loud
?—and in front of him he saw the Scheidler brothers' wagon and Isaac and Shorty moving sluggishly under the tarp. They'd claimed to be heavy sleepers and now by God they were proving it. There was a lot of noise all around, the Indians coming up hard, and Billy Dixon and Billy Ogg shouting and the men in their blankets in front of the buildings rousing, scrambling to get inside.McLendon could see them ahead, yet so very far away, he would never get there in time to join them. He reached the side of the Scheidler wagon and Isaac asked an odd question, “Is it really Indians?” McLendon tried to answer but all that emerged from his throat was a strangled croak. It was at that moment he realized that he had run as far as he could for now, because the Indians were right on them. He had to turn around, draw his gun, and fight. It wouldn't do any good but he had to try. In the camps, in the saloons, he'd heard the buffalo hunters and their crews talk about preferring to shoot themselves rather than be taken, he should probably do that instead of shooting at the Indians, but no matter what, he had to turn around and get out his gun. But when he turned, it got even worse.

The Indians were on them, they were right there, and the leaders were coming straight for the Scheidler wagon. In the last moment before they got there, McLendon noticed things about them, one had his face painted black and wore a long headdress of white feathers, what a curious thing to wear in an attack. The Indian directly to Headdress Indian's left was much smaller and had a knife, such a very long-bladed one, the blade seemed almost as long as the tail of the headdress, there were a few others just behind them but what caught McLendon's eye, maybe ten yards farther back, was a huge Indian whose entire body was painted black. This one held a bugle to his lips and was blowing into it. The resulting bray was the loudest thing of all.

McLendon managed to get his Colt from its holster, but before he could decide whether to shoot Indians or himself they were right there and it was all he could do to sag down weakly and roll just under the wagon, not far enough to miss seeing what happened next. Isaac, apparently still foggy with sleep, hopped to the ground. As soon as he did, Headdress Indian jammed his lance into the place under Isaac's chin—how did he manage that angle?—and blood spurted. Isaac made a sort of convulsive hop and dangled there on the end of the lance. Headdress Indian seemed to be pushing his lance up rather than straight, so his victim's toes scratched feebly in the dust. McLendon thought Headdress Indian must be very strong to support Isaac's weight like that. Then the Indian tried to yank his lance free, but it seemed stuck on something inside Isaac's skull.

Then to McLendon's horror, another Indian, one with yellow face paint, bent down and peered under the wagon. He saw McLendon, gave a triumphant howl, and pointed a gun. McLendon tried but couldn't make himself fire his gun first, and he knew he was about to die when something huge and black launched itself from the wagon and onto the Indian, and the Indian was knocked back. Maurice the Newfoundland had his massive jaws locked on the Indian's arm and McLendon wondered if the dog was going to bite right through the bones, but at that moment Shorty Scheidler finally made his way off the wagon and though McLendon knew that he ought to run or fight or kill himself, something, anything, he couldn't look away from what happened next.

Shorty had a Colt in his hand and he aimed it at Headdress Indian, who was still trying to yank his lance out of Isaac's head. But before he could fire, the smaller Indian who'd also been in front jumped on him and buried the long knife in his shoulder. Shorty screamed and dropped the Colt. He fell on the ground close to McLendon, who got a good look at the small Indian. Despite the yellow and blue face paint, it was
obvious this one had been in a recent brawl, because his right eye was swollen shut. Enough pure hate and rage radiated from his left eye to make up the difference. Small Indian wore a dangling breastplate. McLendon wondered exactly what that garment was made of, and then as it swung to the side he thought he glimpsed an actual breast, what was this? And then Small Indian and Shorty and McLendon all realized who the other was. Shorty just had time to scream once before the woman he'd brutally raped and beaten began cutting him up, filleting him with swift strokes, white teeth gleaming against tawny lips as she smiled. She sliced so deep and fast that Shorty's guts were spilling out even before he knew it, except he must have known it because his shrieks got louder and more horrified. Sadly for Shorty, he didn't die quite yet. He was still breathing when she yanked down his pants, cut off his pecker, and waved it in his face. His own severed penis was surely the last thing Shorty Scheidler saw before he expired in god-awful pain.

While this was going on, the rest of the Indians swept past, but to McLendon there was nothing now but the Indian woman and her bloody knife. She turned her attention to him, some of Shorty's blood was actually dripping from the knifepoint. McLendon didn't want to die the way that Shorty did so he made himself raise his gun to his head. But she was quicker. Before he could pull the trigger she swung her knife arm at him, he expected the pain of being stabbed, but all she did was knock down his arm, banging her wrist against his. Then, to McLendon's amazement, she gave a barely discernible jerk of her chin in the direction of the camp buildings. He didn't understand. Behind her, something was going on with Maurice and the Indian he'd chomped down on, they were still rolling around, and there was an Indian behind them who saw McLendon and aimed a rifle, but the woman saw him, too, and took a step to the right, she was between them, and she jerked her chin at the buildings again, more adamantly this time, and finally McLendon got it,
or thought that he did. She wanted him to run, and he did, though he thought she might be playing with him, drawing out the pleasure until she hacked him up like she did Shorty. He turned and got going, faster with each stride, finally running hard again and damned if she was not right there behind him, practically herding him, he expected the knife in his back any second but it didn't happen. There was plenty of other danger, bullets everywhere, they made curious crackling noises when they whizzed by close, and some of the fire was coming out of the buildings at the Indians. Cash ran through it all, confused as hell, and somehow found himself by the front door of Hanrahan's saloon. He looked behind him and the Indian woman was gone. He pounded on the door and yelled, “It's McLendon, let me in.” The door opened briefly and Bat Masterson hauled him inside.