Buffalo Trail (9 page)

“You give 'em too much credit,” Reed said. “They're little more than animals.”

“Well, then, they're smart animals, and we need to be wiser than they are,” Dixon said. “All right, boys, that's enough meaningful conversation for one evening. Let's drink up J. W. Mooar's fine bourbon whiskey and then see if some of the ladies in the room care for a dance.”

When most of the others were whooping and dancing, McLendon managed to whisper to Dixon, “Your plan makes sense, Billy. Safety in numbers. It's good thinking.”

“Don't worry, McLendon. You're inexperienced, but I feel like you're a good man. If I put all this together, I'll include you in the party.”

McLendon managed not to laugh. “You misunderstand me. I don't believe I'd want to risk my life in Comanche country for all the buffalo hides south of the Arkansas. I just think you've got an idea that might work. And please, if you do this, let Bat come along. It'd break his heart if you didn't.”

Billy looked over at Bat, who was whirling on the dance floor with Anne Louise, the most striking of the girls working at Hanrahan's.

“Hell, I won't be able to keep the mouthy little peckerwood away. I just hope that by then he can shoot as good as he talks.”

I
t was almost two moon cycles before word reached the Quahadi camp about the raiders' fates. The interim was a frustrating time. Besides waiting for the warriors to return, the villagers had very little food and were sometimes reduced to shooting down birds. They only did this when there was real danger of starving.

Then, on two different nights, horses were stolen from their herds. The theft alone was an insufferable insult—the People stole horses, not the other way around—but the shame was compounded when the young boys charged with guarding the herd admitted that the thieves were white men who brazenly cut some of the finest animals away from the rest and drove them away. The Quahadi youngsters were caught completely off guard. Quanah and the rest of the warriors remaining in camp upbraided the boys severely, then took turns guarding the herd themselves. It was considered a menial task, much beneath the dignity of grown men, but the People measured not only their wealth but their power on the number of horses they possessed, and so, for pride's sake, the Quahadi could not tolerate further theft.

Then came the first news of the raids, and the horror of it eclipsed the loss of a few dozen horses.

•   •   •

J
UST AFTER DAWN
on the coldest morning in camp memory, four of the warriors who'd gone raiding in Mexico with the Kiowa staggered into sight. Three were on foot; the fourth was lashed to the back of a horse that was in just as bad condition as its near-unconscious rider.

The villagers rushed out to help them into camp. Even the three on foot had terrible wounds. They were brought out of the biting wind into a tipi, wrapped in the warmest robes available, and offered the last bites of remaining food. Quanah and a few other senior men asked what had happened to them and what had become of the other Quahadi in their party.

“Dead, all dead,” moaned Wide Feather, the most coherent of the wounded men. “Bad Hand's soldiers caught us.”

“That can't be,” said Bull Bear, an older warrior who'd remained in camp. He was well known for admiring himself and finding fault with everyone else. “Fourteen left with Long Branches and the Kiowa. Bad Hand is clever, but not enough to kill all but four of you.”

“All dead,” Wide Feather repeated. Shuddering under the robes, choking down gulps of thin hot soup, he told the story.

It had been a good raid—in fact, one of the finest in recent memory. For a Kiowa, Long Branches was a good leader. They made their way down to Mexico completely unimpeded and, once there, pounced on several small villages, raping and killing the women, torturing the men to death, scalping all of them, and gathering up many horses. They thought about bringing some of the Mexican children back to the Quahadi camp, but since food was so scarce even for those already living there, they decided not to add more hungry mouths and slaughtered the Mexican tots instead. This was life worthy of men: conquering enemies, doing what they pleased to them, and then leaving with their hair and
horses. Not one Quahadi or even one of the lesser Kiowa suffered so much as a scratch. They sang victory songs as they drove their hoofed booty back north.

But back in Texas, while the triumphant raiders stopped to water their stolen stock at some freshwater springs, Bad Hand's cavalry was suddenly on them, Wide Feather had no idea how they were able to manage such surprise. Several Quahadi and Kiowa fell in the first volley of shots, and of course the remaining Kiowa ran away. Wide Feather emphasized that the surviving Quahadi did not. It was understood among all of the People that their wounded fighters were not to be left for the enemy. They must be picked up and carried away, or at least defended by survivors to the point of their own deaths.

“So why are you four here?” Quanah demanded.

He and the other three were cut off behind a band of trees, Wide Feather explained. They'd lost their guns in the fight and had only their lances and knives. Still, they were prepared to make a counterattack to rescue their fellow Quahadi who were wounded and down, when Bad Hand's soldiers spotted them and fired a volley that drove them back several hundred yards farther. All four were hit, hurt so badly that they were barely able to lose themselves in the tall grass.

“From there, we could only watch what happened,” Wide Feather said.

Bad Hand's soldiers were assisted as usual by Tonkawa scouts. The Tonkawa hated the People for being superior and driving them away when they wanted their land. For several generations the People dominated the Tonkawa, taking their horses and their women whenever they wished, and now in response the Tonkawa men were glad to serve Bad Hand. The only great Tonkawa attribute was the ability to track: they could tell from a single bent blade of grass not only how many of the People passed by but their walking speed, their individual weights, and
even the condition of their horses. Otherwise, they were the least of humans, all of them weak-limbed and cowardly, and that worst thing of all. The Tonkawa were cannibals.

“And so it happened while we four watched from the high grass beyond the trees,” Wide Feather said. “It was terrible, but we could not look away.”

As the white soldiers stood idly by, the Tonkawa descended on the fallen Quahadi and Kiowa by the freshwater springs, killing those still alive by slashing their throats. Then they used their knives to cut the livers out of the victims' bodies, roasted the livers over a fire, and ate their disgusting fill. Quanah and the other village men were nauseated by Wide Feather's description.

“I think they saved Long Branches' liver for last,” Wide Feather said. “Somehow they guessed that he was the leader.”

“The ignorant Tonkawa think that they gain other men's powers by eating their flesh,” Bull Bear grunted. “There is much celebration in Tonkawa camps now. They ate livers of the People and now they'll believe they are as great as we are. When our other raiders get back and the weather is better, we Quahadi need to go find them and prove that they're not.”

There was general assent, though the loss of ten men severely reduced the Quahadi fighting strength. Everyone waited now for Cloudy and his men to return, no one more than Isatai, who was still eager to announce that the spirit of Buffalo Hump was back in communication with him.

“I think Buffalo Hump's spirit may have allowed the Tonkawa feast because he is angry I'm waiting so long to announce his presence,” Isatai told Quanah. “Spirits are very impatient.”

“You and Buffalo Hump need to wait like the rest of us,” Quanah snapped. He tried his best to tolerate Isatai's prattling, but he was growing increasingly concerned about his nephew Cloudy. If that raid had
failed, too—if more camp warriors were lost—maybe the remaining villagers would talk about giving up and taking the white man's road, which is how the People referred to the act of surrendering to live on a reservation.

“Buffalo Hump's spirit won't wait much longer,” Isatai warned.

•   •   •

S
OON AFTERWARD
, the remnants of Cloudy's ten-man raiding party straggled home. Their news wasn't as bad as Wide Feathers', but it was close. Like the Kiowa band led by Long Branches, they'd enjoyed initial success. They'd attacked small ranches in Texas instead of tiny villages in Mexico, but with similar results. Their male victims were tortured to death, their female victims raped and then killed, and all children were slaughtered in deference to the hungry times back at the Quahadi camp. They took some horses, began their return journey, and ran into a substantial white cavalry patrol. The running fight lasted for several days. At times it seemed that the Quahadi might escape. A few were wounded, but none so badly that it was necessary to stand and fight. However, the white soldiers were persistent, and they were being helped by Black Seminole scouts. These men, the products of interbreeding between the Seminole Indians and escaped black slaves who lived among them, weren't cannibals like the Tonkawa but far superior fighters and ever better trackers. Every trick Cloudy and his men tried to conceal their trail was thwarted. Finally they were cornered near the river whites called the Brazos, and though they fought bravely the guns used by the white soldiers and Black Seminoles were better. Cloudy and two others fell down dead; there was no sense in trying to retrieve their bodies. The remaining seven Quahadis ran for it, leaving behind the horses they'd stolen. They felt no disgrace—the raid had been conducted in the honored, traditional way, and they had fought bravely. None of their fallen
comrades had been eaten. But, in light of the ten men killed in the earlier raid, an additional three dead Quahadi warriors meant a staggering loss to the camp.

There was much mourning, loud wails from mothers and widows especially. As Quanah feared, some of the villagers, especially the older ones, began talking about going into the reservation. It would be humiliating, but at least everyone left would survive if, for a change, the whites kept their promises and delivered the food promised to reservation Indians. The younger members of the camp, especially the men, would hear nothing of it. They burned to avenge their lost tribesmen on the Tonkawa who'd feasted on their livers. They envisioned a spring raid, when maybe thirty or even forty of the remaining Quahadi men could descend on Tonkawa camps in Texas and butcher everyone living in them.

Only Quanah and Isatai remained apart from the frantic discussions. They spent most of the days roaming on hunts, finding very little game to kill, or else huddled under robes in Isatai's tipi. Quanah avoided his own tipi, because Wickeah couldn't understand why her brave, important husband was keeping to himself at such a critical time. She told him that he had to be a leader, and he told her to be quiet. For a change, she ignored his command and continued to nag, until he had no choice but to get away from her. Any other Quahadi warrior would have soundly beaten a wife who acted so rude, but Quanah never struck Wickeah because he loved her too much.

It was several days after the disastrous news from the raids before Quanah finally told Isatai that it was time.

•   •   •

“I
THINK EVERYONE
is ready to listen now,” he said. “There's much argument and confusion in the camp. Things have never seemed so
desperate. We need the guidance of Buffalo Hump's spirit—spoken in your voice, of course.”

Lately Isatai had been caught up in confusion himself. Quanah's attitude toward him had become unpredictable. Often he was still the good, humorous friend who understood and respected the great responsibility placed on the fat man by the spirits, but sometimes Quanah was almost as condescending as he'd been before the spirits began speaking through Isatai.

Isatai badly wanted Quanah to continue liking him—with all the bad news about the raids and uncertainty of what the villagers should do next, Isatai's spirit contacts seemed to be forgotten by everyone else. Nobody asked him what the spirits thought that they should do. If anything, Quanah had kept him so far away from everyone else that they might not have been able to find him to ask even if they remembered to.

But now Quanah said that it was time. In the morning he would call everyone together and announce that Isatai and the spirits wished to address them. But first, Quanah wanted to spend the night with Isatai in his tipi, discussing exactly what they spirits would say. Did Isatai still know that he was the vessel of Buffalo Hump? Did he truly feel sure of this, and in the morning would he say so? And why, Quanah wondered, had Isatai decided that it was Buffalo Hump whose spirit called him? Could it be that Buffalo Hump wanted the People to remember his great raid when the whites were driven into the sea? Had Buffalo Hump's spirit reminded Isatai of how all the camps of the People united in a time of desperate trouble, and then reached out to other tribes to join them, until finally they numbered four hundred fighters, maybe five hundred, so many that they were able to sweep the whites before them?

Isatai thought so. He wasn't entirely certain. “Maybe you ought to leave me alone to sleep awhile. Then Buffalo Hump's spirit can blow into me and I'll understand him better.”

“What you need besides sleep is something to drink,” Quanah said. He produced a bottle of whiskey, the kind the People sometimes acquired from white traders. “Here, have some.”

Isatai rarely drank whiskey because he usually had nothing of value to trade. He grasped the bottle and took several gulps, choking as the liquor burned his throat. Quanah thumped him on the back and retrieved the bottle.

“And now sleep,” he urged. “When Buffalo Hump's spirit comes, perhaps you might ask if he put it in Long Branches's and Cloudy's minds to make these bad raids happen as a lesson, a way to show us that the old ways of small war parties won't work anymore.”

“I'll try,” Isatai said. “Can I have some more from that bottle?”

Quanah generously let him drink all he wanted, and then stayed beside him as Isatai passed out.

While Isatai snored, Quanah sat in the fat man's tipi and thought about what might happen in the morning. There was some whiskey left in the bottle but he didn't drink it. That would have felt like celebrating something that made him feel ashamed. Of course, he knew that no spirits, let alone that of Buffalo Hump, were communicating through foolish, trusting Isatai. Quanah was tricking the fat man into saying what he wanted, and it was cruel. In fact, he was using trickery—all right,
lies
—to make the People do something they otherwise never would. But he had to. He'd already tried being honest, using logic. No one would listen, so this was the only way.

Quanah understood what the other People would not accept: if they failed to change, if they didn't attempt something daring and different, they were doomed. There were too many white men and too few of the People. It was impossible to kill all the whites, and when the People lost even one man they were greatly weakened. In Quanah's youth, counting
everyone in all their camps, the People numbered twenty thousand or more. Now there were less than four thousand.