Shadow Riders, The Southern Plains Uprising, 1873 (27 page)

But now something inside the old chief told him the sun was setting on his people.

It was the autumn of the white man's year 1873. Perhaps too this was the season of the yellow leaf for the Kiowa.

This was a betrayal all the more difficult to deal with because even Kicking Bird remained silent, staring at the flames of their council fire in Lone Wolf's lodge. The Wolf sat surrounded by the others who talked and argued and debated for long hours that night. Yes, now even Kicking Bird believed the white man had lied and proven himself faithless.

First they had been guaranteed the two chiefs would be freed more than seven moons ago. Anger set in among the Kiowa, but with Lone Wolf's help, Kicking Bird had quieted the warriors and the noisy women—convincing them to wait out the time specified by the white Tehannas. They never had any other choice: it was always the white man's schedule for their lives.

Gone the time of the short grass of their lives. No longer was it merely the march of the seasons and following the imperatives of the nomadic buffalo from rut to hunt, to calving and to hunt once more. When life was simple not so long ago.

Now even old Kicking Bird hung his head in confusion, if not outright shame, that he had been lied to as well as the war-chiefs.

“We could have told you, Kicking Bird!” cried Eagle Heart, giving voice to much of the denunciation heaped on the old chief's shoulders.

“Yes! The white man talks from one side of his mouth when he is afraid of our strength … and he talks from the other side of his mouth when he demands something of our weakness!” added Big Bow, a powerful war-chief among the Kiowa.

Red Otter, Lone Wolf's brother, took the talking stick, impatient to speak his heart. “Why do you spend so much of your strength beating Kicking Bird's shoulders and head? Is he to blame for our troubles?”

“We would not be caught in this now if we had not listened to Kicking Bird in the beginning!” White Horse shouted.

Many others agreed, laughing, jeering, snorting and pounding their flat hands on their thighs in concert.

“It was not Kicking Bird who fooled you,” Lone Wolf said, agreeing with his younger brother, Red Otter, and instantly quieting the noisy ones. “The white man is the one to blame. He—not our chief—should be made to pay.”

“We are trapped now! What can we do?” asked Tau-ankia, Lone Wolf's eldest son.

“Yes, what can we do, Lone Wolf? You have told the white men we would agree to whatever they demanded of us. What now?” asked Gui-tain, the nephew of Lone Wolf.

His eyes glowered at the young warrior, coming to share a place of power and respect among the Kiowa. “I agreed with what the white man wanted—so that he would free Satanta and Big Tree. While one is young, and has many winters left to him … the other is like me: growing old. A man never knows when he will enjoy his last summer. His last autumn. Perhaps never again to see the melting of another winter's snow. Maybe never to feel himself grow strong within the moist pleasure of a woman. This is what guides my thoughts when I attempt to free Satanta.”

“There is more than one way to free our chiefs,” Eagle Heart said quietly above the hush come over the lodge at the end of Lone Wolf's words. “More than one way.”

The old chief gazed across the fire at the warrior. Nodding slightly, Lone Wolf said, “What is it you speak of, Eagle Heart?” He grinned slightly, sensing his heart leap with anticipation.

Eagle Heart grinned back. “The white man does not want to give us back our chiefs. This is plain to see. If he does not—we simply take them.”

“How do we do this?” Kicking Bird asked, for the first time raising his eyes to face the rest of the council.

“Yes—I must know how we do this without causing a lot of Kiowa blood to spill.”

“Lone Wolf,” said Big Bow, seated beside Eagle Heart, “we can do nothing brave if we are not ready to spill Kiowa blood.”

His pride was pricked. He, a proven warrior of many battles with not only the Caddo, Tonkawa and Pawnee, but with the white man as well. Lone Wolf's back straightened. “Do not lecture me, Big Bow. There is not a morning that will come as long as I live that I cannot match the bravest of you here. There is not a night fire to come that the stories of my coups will not overshadow the coups of any man in this lodge. Only Satanta's record in war is greater than mine! Not yours—not any man's here. Do you wish to challenge that truth, Big Bow?”

“Big Bow is only zealous, Lone Wolf,” explained Eagle Heart, placing a hand on his young friend's shoulder. “He meant no challenge—”

“I must hear it from his lips,” Lone Wolf demanded.

Big Bow struggled at first, then finally relented with an apology, “I meant no challenge to my chief.”

“We are all as one in this,” Lone Wolf told the hushed ring of counselors and head men. “No man must shy from the very good prospect that he will die when next we go into the white man's fort. It will be then that we free our chiefs!”

Most keened their war songs or trilled their tongues with victory shouts or yipped like coyotes.

“We must bring a few women with us!” shouted Gui-tain.

“Why?” asked Lone Wolf.

“The white man will see the women and never be suspicious of our plans to fight.”

“This is good,” Lone Wolf agreed. “Bring a dozen women to come to the white man's council with our warriors. And give those women guns to carry under their blankets.”

“Will the Comanche join us in our plan?” asked Red Otter.

“You must ask them,” Kicking Bird replied before anyone else could. His voice had grown hard, for the first time in many winters, like the sharp edges of granite. “Go to them in the morning and tell them of our desire to include them in freeing our chiefs. They will be there when we pull our guns and shoot the white men at the tables—the Comanche deserve to know that we plan to spill our blood rather than bend down to kiss the dirty boots of the lying white men who have betrayed me for the last time!”

“Tell the Comanche we will make war together!” shouted Eagle Heart.

“Just as we have in days gone by,” said Big Bow, “Kiowa and Comanche fighting side by side! It is powerful medicine!”

“Then we are all agreed on this plan?” Lone Wolf asked, looking at his old friend.

“Yes,” answered Kicking Bird in that lodge heavy with renewed silence. “All we must do is to decide on the details. If the white man will not do as he promised, if he will not give us back our chiefs voluntarily—then we will take Satanta and Big Tree back by force.”

*   *   *

While the Kiowa and Comanche were meeting to plan war, the white man met to smooth the way for peace.

As much as Davis had promised his constituents back home and those influential stockmen who had accompanied him north to the reservation that he would hold firm to his demands of the Indians, the governor finally gave in under a relentless crusade led not only by Commissioner Smith and Superintendent Hoag, but with the lobbying of the Kiowa-Comanche agent, James Haworth himself.

“After all, Davis told them,” explained Sharp Grover, just back from a late-night meeting in Lieutenant Colonel Davidson's office, “Haworth would be the man on the spot, right here—the one responsible for making the whole bargain work for both the tribes and the government.”

“You think he can do it?” Seamus Donegan asked.

“I figure he's got the cut of a man who'll give it a hell of a try, Irishman.”

“What's Davis and his crowd think now?” Stillwell asked Grover.

“He's been persuaded.”

“Finally, eh?” Jack said.

“What they going to do now?” Seamus asked. “They left the tribes pretty stirred up over that matter of the army keeping the two chiefs if the camps didn't bring in five hostages.”

“From the looks of it, Davis realizes now he backed the tribes into a corner—where they had no choice but to cower or fight. Damned politicians anyways,” Grover muttered. “They can't get it through their thick heads that a Injun cornered ain't about to turn tail.”

“He'll fight if he's cornered, won't he, Sharp?”

Grover nodded at Stillwell. “The army can't catch 'em—but them warriors aren't running just because their bowels turned to water. They're running to stay ahead of the soldiers and to fight another day.”

“Looks like Davis and the army got to convince the tribes to sit back down for another peace council now,” Seamus said.

Grover nodded. “The lieutenant colonel is sending Phil McCusker to the villages this evening to ask them to come in for another talk tomorrow morning.”

“That soon?” Jack asked.

“This thing goes on any longer,” Grover replied, “tempers getting hotter and hotter—it's likely to mean some blood spilled on that parade out there.”

The eighth of October. An autumn sun shown brightly on the many-hued leaves of the surrounding countryside encompassing Medicine Bluff and Cache creeks. The air itself captured the coming of winter, if not the chance of hope.

This time the chiefs and warriors from the two tribes assembled on the ground near the white man's tables in a much more sullen and hostile mood than they had for the last council. Women were among the crowd, making Seamus feel a bit more at ease, although he did not like the eyes of most of those warriors who milled about between the seated chiefs and the cordon of buffalo soldiers Lieutenant Colonel Davidson had ordered out to ring the parade.

Something did not feel right as the Irishman stepped up beside Jack Stillwell and Sharp Grover, waving them behind the council tent with him.

“What is it?” Grover asked in a whisper.

“I don't know,” Donegan admitted. “I just don't like the idea of you two being up there with all them officials if all hell breaks loose.”

“You figure there's trouble brewing, don't you?” Stillwell inquired.

“Just humor me, boys. And come with me over to Sergeant Waller's outfit.”

The pair followed Donegan as the council got under way.

This time Governor Davis rose and addressed the tribes without any preliminaries or introductions, beginning even before Satanta and Big Tree had reached their chairs near the end of the long tables.

“I wish to announce to the great leaders of your tribes that I have reconsidered my demands delivered two days ago. Instead of waiting for the five raiders to be turned over to us … instead of waiting for all your people to come in to the reservation—I will now turn over your chiefs to your care.”

At the governor's direction, the guards shuffled their two prisoners forward. With a rustle of chains, Davidson's buffalo soldiers helped the chiefs from their shackles. The pair stood but a moment, rubbing wrists while the soldiers removed the irons from their ankles. That done, they looked with uncertainty at the Texas governor.

“You are free to return to your people,” Davis explained magnanimously, then waited for McCusker to translate. “Tell the two they are free men—yet they remain responsible to us for seeing that their men do not raid into Texas any longer.”

With a wide grin and undisguised pleasure, McCusker translated the decree into Kiowa. Seamus watched apprehensively as the chiefs made their way to their people. Everyone seemed stunned, except Davis and his staff, all of whom stood smiling at the reunion. It took a moment for the sudden release to sink in before the Kiowa rushed forward, chattering, singing, greeting their chiefs with joy.

“McCusker,” called Commissioner E. P. Smith, waving the interpreter over. “I want you to inform the chiefs that I will be holding a meeting with them about three o'clock.”

“You want them here?”

“Yes.”

“Should I tell them why you're calling them here again?”

Smith appeared agitated at the answer. “All we've done is free the chiefs, McCusker. We haven't begun to make a lasting peace with these people. Tell them the demands still hold—and Lone Wolf's guarantee of those demands will stand as well. We have done what we said we would: releasing their chiefs. Now it is up to the tribes to do what they said they would to satisfy all our demands.”

McCusker flicked his knowing eyes at Grover, Stillwell and Donegan as the trio came up.

“I figure there's no better time to give an Injun bad news than when he's celebrating good news—is there, Sharp?” McCusker joked sourly.

“Let's hope the Kiowa and Comanche decide to go along with what Lone Wolf guaranteed these government fellas here,” Grover replied.

When the sun had slipped halfway from mid-sky to the western horizon that afternoon, the chiefs and warriors again assembled, but not on the parade by the Sibley tent this time. Instead the Indians were directed by buffalo soldiers to the Fort Sill commissary, where blankets had been spread for the red dignitaries. What was more, this time Satanta and Big Tree sat squarely among their fellow leaders, looking gravely on the long table of white faces above starched collars or blue tunics. So many Indians had come that fully a third had to watch the proceedings from outside the commissary, contenting themselves with standing on the porch, where they crowded at doorways and windows when Commissioner Smith rose to speak.

“We do not need to be here long,” began the stern Quaker, glancing at McCusker to begin his translation. “You will remember the demands the government made of your bands two days ago. It is most important that you remember that you guaranteed to turn over to us five of the raiders who stole and killed across the Red River into Texas.”

There arose a disquieting murmur and shuffling among those Indians crowded into the tight commissary. Donegan eased his hand beneath the holster flap, finding the pistol butt small comfort at this anxious moment. Blankets were being loosened among those in the room.

“You have been asked to turn five of the guilty over within twenty-four hours,” Smith continued. “But you have failed to live up to your end of the bargain. You now have the next twenty-four hours to comply with this demand. Until this time tomorrow and no longer.”