by Tim Washburn
Cyrus tipped his hat to Kicking Bird and whispered out of the side of his mouth, saying, “I ain’t eatin’ his grub.”
“Might have to if you want to get out of here without bein’ scalped,” Goodnight whispered back before they both climbed down from the wagon.
Goodnight made the introductions using a mixture of Kiowa and sign language. Kicking Bird looked at Cyrus and said in broken English, “You Heap Big Guns.”
Cyrus smiled. “That’s me.” Cyrus chuckled that the Indians had given him a name.
Kicking Bird laughed and led them into his lodge. Both men took off their hats before entering, hoping good manners would lead to an abundance of information. It took a moment for Cyrus’s eyes to adjust once inside, but the smell wasn’t as unpleasant as he thought it was going to be. There was a slight gamy odor mixed with the scent of unwashed bodies, yet that was masked somewhat by the aromas of sage and woodsmoke. The fire pit in the center of the floor was cold and it appeared most of the cooking was taking place outdoors. Buffalo robes were stacked around the outer perimeter and Cyrus assumed that’s where the chief’s squaw or squaws slept.
Kicking Bird sat down cross-legged on a large bearskin and invited Goodnight and Cyrus to do the same as he began adding tobacco to a long, thin pipe that was about two feet long and had a small bowl at one end. Cyrus’s knees popped and cracked as he sat, and he was hoping he was going to be able to get up again. As he looked around more, he wondered why the Indians didn’t build some furniture or something. But the more he thought about it he began to understand why—it would be difficult to move, and the Indians were frequent movers.
Kicking Bird was taking his time filling the pipe and Cyrus, feeling time slipping away, wanted to tell him to hurry the hell up, but he didn’t, wanting to leave with all of his hair intact. Finally, the pipe was filled to the chief’s liking and he pulled out a match, lit it with a flick of his thumbnail, put the pipe in his mouth, and touched the match to the bowl of tobacco. Blowing the match out on his exhale of smoke, the chief passed the pipe on to Goodnight, who took a deep pull before passing it on to Cyrus. After taking a puff, Cyrus handed the pipe back to Kicking Bird, eager to get the conversation started. But he was disappointed when the chief seemed content to sit and smoke.
Cyrus looked over at Goodnight and gave a shrug.
“Patience,” Goodnight said in a low voice.
After a few more moments, Goodnight and the chief began talking and, judging from their laughter, Cyrus knew they weren’t talking about anything important. Goodnight relayed some of what was said, and Cyrus nodded and smiled for the chief’s benefit. Eventually, Goodnight’s tone turned serious and Cyrus leaned forward, knowing they were now getting to the heart of the matter. Goodnight pointed at Cyrus as he talked with the chief. The chief responded and Goodnight turned and translated. “He says he can’t believe any Indian would be foolish enough to take one of your kin. He said you and your family are well known among his red brothers.”
“Well, it happened,” Cyrus said. He nodded at Kicking Bird. “He have any idea where my young’un is?”
“Not there, yet,” Goodnight said before turning back to the chief and continuing their conversation, their hands moving quickly to sign, bridging the language gap.
There was a rhythm to Kicking Bird’s words that, in other circumstances, Cyrus might have found soothing. But not today. The chief droned on for a few more minutes then stopped as Goodnight translated. “He says it must have been a group of young braves who didn’t know about you and your family.”
Cyrus was tired of the runaround. “I don’t give a damn who it was. I want to know where I can find the bastards.”
Sensing Cyrus’s tone, Kicking Bird stiffened.
“Easy, Cy,” Goodnight said in a low, even-tempered voice. “There’s a certain way of doin’ this.”
Cyrus spent a moment tamping down his anger and said, “Okay.”
Goodnight turned back to Kicking Bird and continued their discussion. Whatever he said had an effect because Cyrus saw Kicking Bird relax again. As their discussion continued, Cyrus thought if he had his Gatling gun and cannon, he’d get an answer right damn quick.
Kicking Bird stopped talking and Goodnight looked at Cyrus.
“Does he know where my young’un is?” Cyrus asked.
“Maybe,” Goodnight said.
CHAPTER 22
Emma’s misery continued as the Indians and their ponies raced across the plains. Adding to her despair was the hunger that gnawed like a bad headache. She hadn’t had anything to eat since her last supper . . . back at home. And that thought launched a flood of memories, and fresh tears sprang to her eyes. She didn’t care if the Indians beat her for crying again or not. She’d beg them to run her through with one of their lances if she thought her request would be granted. But she knew it wouldn’t—she was chattel to be sold or traded to the highest bidder.
A glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon, in the form of a dust trail, the only signs of humanity Emma had seen since being captured. She had no idea what it was, but it had to be better—much, much better—than her current situation. Big Nose hadn’t tied her hands as tight as he’d had every time before, probably thinking any escape out here in the big nowhere would be futile. Emma looked around to make sure the Indians weren’t watching her and began working to free her hands. The pain, the agony, the hunger, were all pushed to the back of her mind and thoughts of escape moved to center stage.
Emma knew the Indians had seen the dust trail because they immediately changed direction, adjusting their course to intercept the source of the dust trail. Working furiously on the knots binding her wrists, Emma began plotting her escape route. But an awful thought struck her—what if it was just more Indians? Perhaps the tribe her four captors belonged to? Emma worked hard to vanquish that from her mind. Her luck couldn’t be that bad, could it?
As they drew closer, the Indians slowed the ponies to a walk. As they topped a rise, Emma’s hopes soared—it was a pair of freight wagons! Emma doubled down on her efforts. Even if she couldn’t get free there was hope that whoever was driving those wagons would be able to barter—or maybe even fight—for her freedom. When they were within a half a mile of the wagons, the Indians changed course again, now heading for a ravine that ran parallel to the trail. From the looks of things, the freight haulers were unaware they were being pursued by four Indian braves painted for war. They hadn’t yet altered their course, nor had they whipped their teams into action.
Success. Emma now had her hands free, but she held the rope tightly around her wrists to avoid suspicion. The only hiccup she could see was if the Indians decided to tie her to a tree before the upcoming encounter with the wagons. Or, horror of all horrors, what if the Indians decided to avoid the wagons altogether? Emma couldn’t even comprehend the results of that scenario. Trying to force an encounter, she began shouting as loud as she could.
Big Nose, leading her horse, immediately pulled her mount forward and backhanded her across the face. The blow stunned Emma and she immediately tasted blood. But that didn’t stop her. She shouted again, as loud as she could. That bought her a roundhouse right from Big Nose, and her head slumped to her chest.
Emma opened her eyes. Her head pounding and her ears ringing, she had no idea how long she’d been out. She worked her jaw to see if everything was functioning as it should be and found that it was. Next, she checked to make sure her hands were still free and discovered they were, the untied rope still wrapped around her wrists. Did she dare open her mouth to scream again? That was a question that required more thought. If she yelled again the Indians might well kill her. But isn’t that what I wanted only moments ago? Emma didn’t think the people on the wagons could hear her anyway, so she held her tongue. And with freedom so close, getting killed now would be extremely unfortunate.
The Indians put the horses into a gallop as they continued down the ravine. They were now riding in rough country. The enormous s
eas of grass had been replaced with a rocky, hilly, barren terrain cut through with numerous dry ravines and, from what Emma could tell, there was no source of water in sight. And that made her thirstier, if that was possible. The horses had not been watered in hours, but they didn’t seem to be any worse for wear because of it. As for the four savages, nothing appeared to bother them—not the lack of water or food and not the lack of sleep. They just kept going, and going, and going and Emma finally understood why they were such a difficult enemy to defeat.
After a while, the Indians brought the horses to a stop and Scar jumped from his mount and, crawling on his belly, slithered to the top of the ravine. While he was doing that, Big Nose pulled her horse forward and Emma braced for another beating. Instead, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her close, shoving a piece of rawhide into her mouth. He whispered something in Comanche that Emma didn’t understand, but from his tone, she judged it to be a threat.
After a few moments of looking, Scar wormed his way back down, stood, nodded his head, and remounted his horse. The braves began preparing their armaments as Emma looked on. She was at a critical point of her escape plan—would the Indians take her along on their raid? If they didn’t take her, she would not be able to alert the wagon drivers of her presence, eliminating any hope of a rescue. And if the wagons were to flee from the Indians, Emma thought there would be no way she would ever catch up to them before the savages recaptured her.
Once Big Nose was satisfied his weapons of war were arranged to his liking, Emma’s worst fears were realized when he led her horse over to a large tree and tied the rope securely around the trunk. Emma’s brain immediately went into overdrive, calculating a new escape plan. She estimated that it was maybe two or three hours before darkness and if she could get away, she just might have a shot at eluding her captors.
The Indians walked their mounts toward a game trail that led topside and turned up the path, pausing when they were just below the rim. Emma silently urged them on. The quicker they were gone, the quicker she could implement her new plan. Moments later, with a loud whoop that sent a tingle down Emma’s spine, the Indians charged up out of the ravine. Emma tossed the rope that had bound her hands to the ground and began working out how to free her horse.
CHAPTER 23
Cyrus’s legs were going to sleep as he sat in Kicking Bird’s lodge waiting for Charlie Goodnight to get the details of where his granddaughter might be. He desperately wanted to stand up and stretch, but he didn’t know if that would be an insult that would cost him his life. He’d been around Indians all of his life but never with them. Kicking Bird paused his narrative and shouted out something in Comanche. Cyrus moved his hand a little closer to his pistol, ready for whatever might happen. The one quick decision he made was that he wasn’t dying alone. A moment later a squaw lifted the flap and stuck her head in. The chief muttered something, and the squaw disappeared. Cyrus relaxed, or got as relaxed as he could get surrounded by hundreds of Indians.
Kicking Bird restarted the conversation using a mix of Kiowa and sign language. The chief appeared to be an honorable and honest man, but Cyrus knew looks could be deceiving. Kicking Bird might be a hospitable host one day and then he could just as easily head south on a raid the next, killing, raping, and stealing from white settlers all over Texas. It happened repeatedly and Cyrus didn’t know if the Indians relished the killings or if they were a byproduct of their ultimate quest to steal as many horses as possible. Money—greenbacks, coins, or gold—held no allure for the Indians. Their primary wealth was determined by the number of horses they owned.
Goodnight responded to something the chief said then turned to look at Cyrus. “He thinks a group of Quahadis may end up with your young’un.”
“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Cyrus said. “Where can we find these Injuns?”
Goodnight posed that question to the chief, who responded, saying, “Llano Estacado.”
Cyrus didn’t speak much Spanish, but he understood what the chief said and groaned inwardly at its implication.
“You catch that?” Goodnight asked.
“Yeah,” Cyrus said. “We’d have a better chance findin’ ’em if they were on the moon.” Cyrus nodded at Kicking Bird and said, “He narrow it down some?”
While Goodnight attempted to extract more information from the chief, Cyrus ruminated on the task ahead. The Llano Estacado was a vast expanse of nothingness. Treeless and waterless, it was inhospitable to both man and beast. A scattering of sun-bleached bones in the sand would be the only indication that someone had attempted to traverse the remote region and failed. For the Comanche, all that space was their fortress. Luck would have to be on their side, Cyrus thought, if they had any chance of finding Emma. Cyrus’s thoughts were interrupted when an extremely attractive, young, light-skinned Indian woman threw back the flap and stepped into the teepee. Cyrus thought she might be the prettiest Indian gal he’d ever seen, but despite her beauty, he cringed when he saw what she carried—three bone bowls steaming with some type of stew.
Kicking Bird patted his chest and pointed at the woman and said, “Me, Topen.”
Lucky bastard, Cyrus thought, if he got to bed down with that woman every night. Goodnight said something to the chief and he replied. Goodnight translated. “Her name is Topen and she is Kicking Bird’s daughter.”
Okay, maybe not so lucky, Cyrus surmised, thinking every buck in the tribe was probably sniffing after her. If he had to guess her age, he’d peg her at sixteen, or a year or two on either side of that.
Topen offered a small bow and passed out the bowls to the three men. Cyrus glanced at his, trying to determine the contents without offending their host. He held the bowl up to his nose, took a sniff, and was surprised to find the aroma enticing. It smelled much like the stew his wife made and contained some of the same ingredients—meat and root vegetables combined in a broth. Cyrus’s main discomfort stemmed from questions about the specific species of meat the Indians had used for the meal. Strictly a beef eater, he would dine on venison or buffalo on occasion, but drew the line there. He refused to put squirrel, snake, armadillo, or opossum anywhere near his mouth. Another sticking point to eating was that Topen hadn’t brought anything with which to eat the stew. That was soon resolved when Kicking Bird dug into his bowl with his hand. Goodnight followed suit, and Cyrus sighed and plucked a chunk of potato from the lukewarm broth and tossed it in his mouth.
Apparently, dinner conversation was not something the Indians indulged in. The chief remained quiet as he gulped down stew by the handfuls. Goodnight didn’t seem to be concerned, his hand in constant motion between bowl and mouth. Cyrus, tamping down his apprehension, popped a chunk of meat in his mouth and chewed. It was a bit tough, but otherwise tasted fine. Cyrus tried some more, then more until his bowl was empty and he slurped down the remaining broth. He set the bowl aside and wondered if he should even ask the question but felt compelled to do so. He looked at Goodnight and said, “Stew’s pretty good. Was that buffalo we was eatin’?”
Goodnight slurped the rest of his down and then said, “Nope.”
“Well, what was it?” Cyrus asked.
“Dog,” Goodnight replied.
Cyrus’s stomach roiled and he muttered a curse word or two. Goodnight laughed and said something to the chief, who also began to chuckle. “First time eatin’ dog, Cyrus?” Goodnight asked.
“I wish to hell I hadn’t asked, now,” Cyrus said.
Goodnight laughed again. “Ah hell, Cy, ya couldn’t tell a difference, could ya?”
Cyrus didn’t reply and instead muttered another string of curse words that elicited another round of chuckles from Goodnight and Kicking Bird. Eventually the chuckles died, and the three men got back down to business. Cyrus asked, “Did the chief narrow it down any?”
“He seems to think the Quahadis might be camped somewhere ’tween the Canadian and Arkansas rivers,” Goodnight said. “I know that’s not a lot to go on but it’s all you’re gonna
get.”
“Who’s the big chief for the Comanche that might could tell us more?” Cyrus asked.
“There ain’t one,” Goodnight replied. “The tribe ain’t got no big chief or much of anything else. They ain’t got no type of structure like we got. The individual groups’ll have a chief of sorts, but they pretty much all do what they want.”
“Well, hell,” Cyrus said. “Maybe they ain’t got no big chiefs, but somebody’s got to make the decision of when to move camp and where to. Who’s runnin’ that show for this here group we’re talkin’ about?”
Goodnight posed the question to Kicking Bird. The chief answered and Goodnight translated. “He thinks it’s probably Quanah Parker.”
Cyrus reared back in surprise. “Cynthia Ann Parker’s boy? Weren’t you in on the raid that rescued her?”
Goodnight nodded. “That’s him. And yes, I was there, a lot of good it did. Should have left her with the Indians.”
CHAPTER 24
Emma’s hopes soared when she heard gunfire echoing across the prairie. If the wagon drivers could kill her Indian captors all of her problems would be solved. That thought quickened her efforts. She untied the rope that bound her to the horse and kicked her mount in the ribs to get him to walk forward so she could free the lead rope from the tree. When the horse didn’t move, she kicked again, this time harder, and the stubborn horse refused to move. Emma didn’t know if she could get back on the horse if she had to climb down to free the rope. Would the horse move with the rope untied? There was only one way to find out.
Emma climbed down from the horse and nearly went to her knees when her feet touched the ground. Her legs were weak and sore. She rubbed and kneaded the outside of her thighs to get the blood moving and eventually recovered enough to limp forward and untie the rope. Giving the rope a hard jerk, she finally got the horse moving. How do I get back on? Emma scanned the area around her and quickly formulated a plan. Leading the horse over to the side of the ravine, Emma climbed up the bank until she was even with the horse, gritted her teeth, and jumped. The jolt of pain when she landed on the horse’s back was so intense, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. “Oh God . . . oh God,” she muttered as the pain radiated all the way up her spine and down to her toes. Inhaling a series of deep breaths, the intense pain slowly receded to the all-too-familiar dull ache and she grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane and tapped her heels against his ribs. The horse began to walk, and she steered it toward the game path that led out of the ravine as more gunfire reverberated across the plains. Please, please let the Indians be dead.