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Authors: Mike Blakely

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BOOK: Come Sundown
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“What did they do with all those prisoners?”
“They marched 'em to the Bosque Redondo, where the Mescaleros were being held.”
“That's a long march.”
“It was bad, too. The army hadn't planned rations for that many prisoners. A lot of those Navahos took sick and died—old folks; children. And more died when they got to the Bosque. Some kind of fever. They were supposed to be growing their own food there, but worms and grasshoppers had eaten all the crops and Indians starved by the scores. That wasn't Kit's fault. He was just following orders and the army didn't provide him with the food he was supposed to have for those poor savages.”
I shook my head. The fact that I had resigned as Kit's scout for his Indian wars was but little comfort when I thought of Navaho children dying far from their canyon homes in a desolate prison camp. “I've caught wind of trouble in Cheyenne and Arapaho country, too. What have you heard?”
Now John's mood darkened, for this business struck closer to his home in Boggsville. “The army ordered troops to go out on the plains, find some Indians, and attack them. Nobody really knows why. Rumors of raids, I guess. I heard old Chief Lean Bear rode out to parley with Lieutenant Eayre and was fired upon not twenty paces from the troops. He died wearing the peace medal President Lincoln had given him in Washington.”
I remembered that chilling day in New Mexico, when Paddy Graydon fired on Manuelito's people, and my knife blade got stuck suddenly in the stake pin I whittled.
“They say Lieutenant Eayre's detachment would have been clean wiped out if old Chief Black Kettle hadn't prevented the warriors from slaughtering them. Eayre only had about a hundred men, and there were five or six hundred Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors camped nearby that Eayre didn't know about. William went out there and calmed things down. His boy George was there, too.”
“And Charles?”
“Charles didn't show himself. He's out there running wild somewhere. Did you hear about Satank?”
“Nothing since he left our camp after the big buffalo hunt last fall.”
“A couple of months ago, he rode up to Fort Larned to talk to the officers. Some excitable young sentry pulled a gun on him, and Satank shot an arrow through the boy before he could even fire. Killed him. The bugler started blowing, so Satank's people ran off the horse herd so the soldiers couldn't follow.”
“Oh, no. Now Satank's a marked man, and he sometimes camps with us.”
“It gets worse,” John said. “The army's building a new fort on the Canadian at the mouth of the Conchas.”
“That's on the old Comanche Trail to the Llano Estacado.”
“That's no accident. The rumor is that General Carleton is going to send Kit out here to punish the Kiowas and Comanches for raiding.”
I tipped my head back and laughed.
“What's funny about that?”
“Carleton thinks he can send a single regiment out here to do battle with the Kiowas
and
the Comanches? That's funny, John. But it won't be funny if it actually happens.”
“Well, Kit rounded up more than three thousand Navahos in the last campaign, didn't he? And with just a few hundred soldiers.”
“The Kiowas and Comanches don't have any peach orchards to chop down. They don't live in little stone houses up in some canyon. The army will be lucky to even find any Kiowas or Comanches to do battle with, and if they do, they better be ready for an entirely different kind of campaign.”
“You know Kit,” John said. “He's savvy to the ways of these wild Indians.”
“If I know Kit the way I think I do, he'll have the good sense to resign if he's ordered into Comancheria.”
John seemed confused by my stance on this subject. “I thought you and Kit were pals.”
I whittled a couple of strokes on the stake pin. “Kit taught me to always ask myself one question.
Is this right?
And it's not right for the army to charge in here and punish a bunch of Indians when they don't know if they're guilty of raiding or not.”
“They
have
been raidin', Orn'ry. You know that.”
“Some of them have. But you can't blame the whole tribe for the actions of a few young hotheads out to make names for themselves.”
“Well, the chiefs have got to start controlling their hotheads, or there's gonna be a war.”
“Somebody needs to tell them that.”
“Why don't you?”
“Believe me, I have, John, but these Indians know I'm not the Big Captain. If General Carleton wants to avoid an Indian war the likes of which the army has never seen, he better have some respect for the Comanche and Kiowa leadership, show his face, and have some talks.”
“General Carleton doesn't have much use for smokin' the peace pipe with Indians.”
“No, he'd rather send a regiment out here to force them out of their own country and onto some death trap of a prison camp. And
that's not right.
Not only that, it's not possible. You're talking about battling the best light cavalry the world has ever seen on their own ground, and their tactics are like no cavalry maneuvers ever taught at West Point. Don't forget where you are, John. This is Comanche country, paid for in blood generations before we were born. They'll defend it as sure as you'd defend your country if somebody invaded it. What if I moved into your neighborhood and spread a bunch of damned diseases among your children and then scattered your game off until you were starving, then sent soldiers in to attack you?”
John stood, dusted himself off, and walked to the edge of the adobe walls, obviously agitated. He looked out at the Cheyenne tipi his wife had raised. We both heard the laughter of Westerly and Amache coming from inside. He shook his head and turned back to me. “You're my brother-in-law, Orn'ry, and to me that means as much as you being a blood brother. I guess we've married ourselves into a mess with our squaw wives, but they're Cheyenne, not Comanche. Not Kiowa.”
“I was adopted Comanche before I ever met you, John. Before I ever met Westerly. Anyway, if the army goes after the Comanches and Kiowas, who do you think will be next?”
John nodded and looked at the ground. He knew I was referring
to the Cheyenne and Arapaho problem. “I hope it doesn't come to that.”
“There are men out here on the frontier who would rather make their reputations skirmishing with Indians than marching straight into battalions of Rebels. But they don't know what they're getting into. They don't have the proper respect for the Plains Indians as fighters. Kit's successes are deceptive. The Mescaleros were small in number. The Navahos were dependent on their crops. These roaming plains tribes will prove far more difficult to conquer. It can't be done in one winter's time. It would take years. Maybe decades.”
“What if Kit
does
come, Orn'ry? What are you going to do?” I tossed aside the stake I had whittled on a bit too much. “I don't know.”
“You know he'll want you to guide—scout for him.”
“I've thought of that.”
“What if he asks you?”
I picked up another bois d'arc stick, my sharp blade slicing through the bark to the bright orange-yellow heartwood. “I'll guide a peace delegation out here to negotiate a treaty. But I won't lead armed troops to attack my own people.”
John looked at the toe of his boot. He did not reply. He stood there in the sun for a moment, then kicked at a piece of an old adobe brick and returned to the shade of the brush arbor. His body folded like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and then stretched out once again across the ground. He pulled his hat over his eyes. For a long while he said nothing. I thought he had gone to sleep to the rhythm of my knife blade on the wooden stake pin I was fashioning.
“You'll never guess what I went and did,” he said, pulling his hat aside to grin at me.
“You didn't soil your britches, did you?”
He laughed hard. “No, I bought a hundred head of cows at Westport and drove them all the way across the plains to Boggsville. Cost me near every spare dollar I had. They fared the winter better than the sheep. Coyotes caught a couple of cows down when they were calving and killed 'em. Lost a calf to a wolf, and one to a lion, but I still came out with a decent calf crop.”
“Sounds like a risky investment.”
“It is. But that high plains prairie grass sure puts the weight on them beeves come springtime. If we come out of all this Indian trouble, Orn'ry, I might just make a rancher. I'm going to buy another fifty or so cows when we sell the horses.”
“Are you looking for investors?”
“You want in?”
“Sure. I haven't got much use for cash money. I'll throw in with you.”
John smiled and lay back with his fingers intertwined behind his head.
“You'll never guess what
I
went and did,” I said.
“What?”
“Have you ever seen a white buffalo?”
John scoffed. “That's a tall tale. I don't think they even exist.”
I laughed, and peeled away another curl of wood with my blade. “Have I got a story to tell you …”
I
rode my old paint stallion, Major, into the herd of Missouri shorthorn cows and their half-grown calves. John Prowers had herded the shorthorns from Missouri. The cows made way for Major, allowing me to push through the herd with my lariat ready in my right hand. I was looking for late calves that had been born after the spring roundup and had not yet been maimed with John Prowers's brand and ear mark.
Looking over the backs of the cows, I finally spotted the last of the unmarked calves—his long, notchless ears betraying him. I slipped into position, my loop hanging from my palm. The calf was not even aware of me yet, so I was able to approach his right flank. The cows parted, and I whistled to spook the target to my right. His ears swiveled. He saw me, and trotted away. My loop whirled twice—vertically to my side, rather than horizontally overhead as when roping a beef by the head. The rawhide noose flipped under the calf's belly,
and stood on edge in front of his hind legs for a second. Before the stiff rawhide loop could collapse, the calf stepped into it and I jerked slack. Taking two wraps on the saddle horn, I reined Major away quickly to tighten the loop on the calf's hind ankles before he could kick it loose. I dragged him away by the heels, scared and bawling.
I rode between Westerly and Amache to get to the branding fire. They, along with Rumalda Boggs, William Bent, William's daughter, Mary, and her husband, R. M. Moore, had been holding the herd loosely bunched so I could heel-rope the “slicks” as Tom Boggs called the unmarked calves. We had gathered this herd on the south bank of the Arkansas, across from the site of Bent's Old Fort—Fort William, as the trappers sometimes called it. As my pony dragged the calf from the herd to the fire, I could look across the river and gaze upon the place where once great adobe walls had towered, like those of a castle. It was all gone now, but my memory could still see it. Just below our herd was the river ford where an Apache arrow had once hissed through the air and imbedded itself in my shoulder blade. The scar itched as I remembered.
When I approached the fire, John Prowers grabbed the tail of the calf, and Charlie Rict grabbed the rope leading to my saddle horn. By pulling in opposite directions, they flipped the two-hundred-pound victim onto his right side. Charlie Rict knelt on the frightened calf's neck and shoulder and pulled up on the left foreleg to hold the beast flat. At the same time, John sat on the ground behind the calf, forced the right hind leg forward with his boot and pulled the other hind leg back with his hands, tossing my loop aside as he did so.
With the squirming bull calf constrained, Robert Bent applied the hot iron on the shoulder, pulling the brand away as the calf thrashed in pain, so the mark wouldn't smear, then reapplying the glowing brand. The odor of burning hair and flesh assaulted my nostrils the way the poor beast's bellowing belabored my ears, but this was business and the calf had to be claimed. Now Tom Boggs moved in with a sharp knife to crop the left ear and notch the right, carelessly tossing the pieces he had cut away to be scavenged by coyotes later. Next, he moved toward the testicles with the bloody blade.
“Don't cut this one,” John said. “I'm keeping him.” John nodded at Charlie Rict and they both released the calf at the same time. As John turned loose the calf's hind legs, the two-hundred-pound bull thanked him by kicking him hard in the chest as he sprang from the ground. Tom Boggs laughed—he could tell that John had not been seriously injured. I chuckled along as I coiled my reata.
“You little son of a bitch!” John yelled as he stood, rubbing his chest. “After all I've done for you!”
“Could have been worse,” Tom said. “Could have been your teeth.”
“Could have been worse for him. Could have been his balls.” He looked into his shirt where the hooves had skinned him. “We need to go down to Maxwell's Ranch and steal us some Mexicans for this kind of work.”
“We've got Orn'ry, there. He ropes as good as any Mexican Maxwell's got.”
“He don't count. He's usually out there skinning white buffalos and such. We need some
permanent
Mexicans around here. And something other than these shorthorns for them to gather.”
“They look good,” Tom said. “They've fared better than I ever thought an American beef would.”
John shook his head. “When the war's over, I'm gonna find me some Kurries.”
“Some what?” Robert Bent said.
“Kurry cattle, from Ireland,” I explained.
John gestured at me. “Maybe some Black Angus from Scotland.” I had suggested the possibility of importing breeds that thrived in the Highlands of the British Isles, hoping their characteristics might prove equally well suited to life on the high plains. My brother-in-law liked the idea.
“I'm betting the Herefords will do as well as any,” I said.
“Well, we'll see in good time.”
The men kicked some dirt onto the coals of the branding fire and got mounted. We had been out three days, gathering these cattle and camping on the plains at night. I had spared Major any of the hard chasing and had only used him to rope and drag calves. He was fourteen years old now, still sound, and
vastly experienced in many types of human enterprises. He really seemed to enjoy this business of herding cattle, and would watch a herd as if eager for some half-wild brute to just try breaking free.
By whistling and shouting, we started our branded cattle moving lazily toward William's stockade, but they seemed in no hurry to get there, and daylight would not wait on our arrival. Once there, we would pen the herd and rest easy for a night. Tomorrow we would sort the cattle, turning the keepers loose on the open range, and herding the market beeves to Fort Lyon. There, the army would buy most of them to feed to soldiers, and the Indian agency would purchase the rest to issue as rations to friendly Indians.
So with three days' worth of dirt and sweat clinging to us, we pushed the cattle homeward, content with our success. I was wishing the beeves would move along a little faster when I heard John Prowers shout back at me from the front of the herd: “Orn'ry, ride that paint up here and give 'em something to look at.”
Major had a wide white butt that would attract the attention of the dumb beasts, give them something on which to focus, and encourage them to follow. As the sun sank behind us and my stomach started to growl, I loped forward along the left flank of the herd.
It was then that I happened to spot a large group of riders on a ridge ahead and to the left of us. I slowed to a walk as I caught up to Westerly, who had been tending the flank in front of me. “Do you see them?” I asked.
“Yes, I just noticed them.”
“Can you tell who they might be?”
“Indians wouldn't show themselves out in the open that way.”
“They must be white.”
“Soldiers?”
“That would be my guess. I'm going to ask John if he wants me to ride ahead to see about them.”
“Be careful.”
I smiled and loped Major forward to lead the herd and to talk with John. I pointed out the riders. He hadn't seen them
yet, for he had been concentrating on getting the herd to follow him. We contemplated who the horsemen might be for a while. We decided to continue on our way, which would take us about a mile to the south of the party on the hill. At twenty-six, John was ten years younger than me, but these were mostly his cattle, so I considered him in charge of this operation. Besides, he had years of experience on the frontier working for William Bent, and typically made good decisions.
We rode for almost half an hour, the herd assuming a proper pace, when we noticed some riders coming at us at a canter from the larger party. As they neared, I noticed that the leader of the party rode head and shoulders above his companions—a big man on a huge horse. The glint of metal on his blue tunic identified him as an officer of the U.S. Army. The party rode toward a point in front of our herd, as if they meant to halt our progress.
“You want me to ride out and meet them, John?”
“Let's both go.” He signaled for William and R. M. to take our places on the point. The two of us loped to meet the approaching men. As we came nearer, I recognized the army officer.
“That's John Chivington.”
My brother-in-law answered with a groan.
John M. Chivington, the Fighting Parson, the self-proclaimed hero of Glorieta Pass, had gone on to achieve the rank of colonel, and now commanded the Colorado volunteers. I knew all this from newspapers and word of mouth. His arrogance and ambition, I had been told, had grown beyond his elevation in rank.
We watched as the party of eleven riders slowed, engulfed by the dust they had kicked up. I knew these men were probably from the Third Colorado Cavalry—the “Hundred-Dazers” as they were called, for most had recently signed on for one-hundred-day enlistments, as if the Indian problem could be solved in a single season. They looked as tough as any bunch of men I had ever seen—most were out-of-work miners and bullwhackers and such. Not one wore a uniform. They dressed in store-bought or handmade garb ranging from buckskins to broadcloth. None had been shaved or shorn in weeks. Their weaponry were plentiful and plainly displayed.
John raised his hand as a greeting.
“Halt there!” Chivington shouted, though we had already stopped to wait for him.
“Hello, Colonel Chivington,” John said.
“Do I know you?” His soldiers made a half-circle around us.
“We met just the once, down at William Bent's Stockade.”
“Can't say as I remember.” The booming projection of his voice strained my ear. He looked at me. “But I remember you, all right,” he said, smiling uncomfortably. Chivington had done some boasting about Glorieta Pass, but he never voluntarily admitted that he had fought the whole battle from the safety of the bluff overlooking the Texas supply camp. He knew that I knew. “Mr. Green?”
“Greenwood.”
“Of course. I see you made it safely off Glorieta Mesa.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you men doing out here?”
John glanced at me and answered by jutting his thumb behind him toward the herd.
“I can see cattle. Where are you going with them?”
“Bent's Stockade.”
“Why?”
John sighed. He clearly did not like being interrogated. “I have a contract to supply beef to Fort Lyon.”
The colonel leaned back in his saddle and smiled. “Well, praise the Lord. That's mighty fine. You boys seen any Indians?”
We shook our heads.
“Indian sign?”
“Nope,” John said.
“You'd better watch your scalps out here.”
“We're on good terms with the Indians.”
Chivington chuckled, and few of his men joined him. “The only Indian on good terms with me is one with a bullet through his skull. Why aren't you men riding with us? Are you Rebel sympathizers as well as Indian lovers?”
“I haven't seen any Rebels around here to sympathize with,” John replied.
“No, because me and my boys from the First turned them
back at Glorieta Pass.” Chivington offered an obligatory gesture in my direction, as if swatting a fly away. “Greenwood, here, helped.”
All this time, the herd had been coming up behind us, and now Chivington got a closer look at our wrangling crew. “What in the name of … Those are Indians!”
“That's my wife,” John said, his voice a plain warning. He pointed toward Amache.
I pointed toward Westerly. “And mine.”
Chivington grunted and spat on the ground. “Squaw men. Apparently you haven't heard.”
“Heard what?” John demanded.
“By order of Governor Evans and General Blunt all Indians who don't want to be considered hostile—and as such treated as enemies—must report to the Sand Creek reservation.”
“I'll take that under advisement,” John said.
“I highly recommend that you do more than take it under advisement. If you are found harboring hostiles, you'll be arrested.”
“What authority do you have to arrest me for living in my own house with my own wife?”
Chivington tapped the eagle insignia on his shoulder. “This authority. If your wife is Indian, she must report to the reservation.”
Now John was getting angry. He had lived on these ranges much longer than the colonel and didn't appreciate being bossed around in his own home country. “That's a load of shit, Colonel. My wife lives with me, and you will pay hell arresting me for that. I'll have a letter to the governor penned before my lamp goes out tonight, and we will just see about your authority.”
“Easy, John,” I said under my breath. I looked back toward the herd and saw William Bent trotting toward us. This gave me some relief, for no one was more highly respected than William in the whole Arkansas River Valley, and he had a knack for calming tense situations.
BOOK: Come Sundown
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