by Mike Kearby
Ambush at Mustang Canyon
MIKE KEARBY
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
For Joe, who makes my heart soar.
The buffalo are disappearing rapidly, but not faster than I desire. I regard the destruction of such game as Indians subsist upon as facilitating the policy of the government, of destroying their hunting habits, coercing them on reservations, and compelling them to begin to adopt the habits of civilization.
—Columbus Delano, Secretary of the Interior, Speaking before Congress in 1874
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Author’s Note
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
High Praise For Mike Kearby!
Other Leisure books by Mike Kearby
Copyright
Prologue
Near Flint Creek, Texas, January 1871
The Owl Prophet, Maman-ti and twenty-five Kiowa warriors crept from the morning shadow of the scalped mountain and into the dry grasses of the Comancheria. A generous north wind concealed the raiding party in a rolling wave of yellow and allowed them to move undetected through the prairie.
Maman-ti the hero at the Battle of the Washita had saved many women and children in Black Kettle’s camp from the brutal fury of Custer’s Seventh Cavalry. After that day, he assumed the power of shaman and organized many raids against the . The Owl Prophet’s medicine was strong and he could predict the victor of a battle and the number of casualties on each side.
Now his visions foretold of the freighters who would camp near the scalped mountain this morning and of a wallow that would protect the Kiowa from the death spirit.
Forty yards from their intended targets, a narrow draw ran parallel to the soldiers’ road. The draw was protected on the south by a stand of scrub oak. He signaled to the twenty-five with a clenched fist, and one by one the Kiowa braves crawled into the trench.
Above them, three sat around a small fire and drank black water as they disturbed the prairie with loud laughter. An unhitched wagon loaded with goods sat behind the men. Four staked horses grazed nearby.
Maman-ti studied each man’s face and recognized the one known to the Kiowa as Britt Johnson. He smiled broadly, for the Kiowa held a bounty on this scalp. Two nights earlier, a dream vision had predicted Johnson’s fate.
Maman-ti bared his teeth and shot an anxious glance at the braves on either side of him. He raised his right hand, now painted white and cloaked in the dried skin of an owl. The warriors eagerly nodded their confidence at the strongest of Kiowa signs, the owl puppet.
“!” the Owl Prophet whispered. “
“!” replied the twenty-five.
The owl puppet motioned to the east, the south, and the west, then each line of warriors slithered to their assigned compass points.
Maman-ti raised his head and looked to the sky for a sign. On the eastern horizon, a large cloud sat on the mountaintop.
It is a good day, he thought and then signaled the attack. Soon, the would expend their bullets, and the Kiowa warriors would fulfill the prophecy. After this day, the whites will fear the Owl Prophet’s medicine for many years, and the name Maman-ti will make even the strongest of men tremble.
Chapter One
Elk Creek, Indian Territory, June 1874
A deafening roar rose from the canyon floor near Elk Creek as an unstoppable wall of buffalo thundered west across Indian Territory. The great beasts dispatched a mile-long swirl of dust skyward as they stampeded toward the North Fork of the Red River.
Maman-ti, accompanied by Kiowa war chiefs, Big Bow and White Horse, sat atop their ponies on the canyon rim and watched five Comanche warriors pursue the great herd.
Maman-ti, in contrast to the tall, muscular Kiowa on either side of him, stood only five-foot, seven-inches and was slender in build. His small, bronze face carried the wrinkles of many suns and made him appear much older than his age. His cheekbones protruded forward in small circles and a coarse head of black hair flowed down his back. Two owls adorned his bare chest, painted with a mixture of animal grease and crushed berries.
At the back of the stampede, hidden in the dust, the lead Comanche rider encouraged his pony close to a group of young bulls. The warrior raced into the pack and in a deft maneuver positioned his pony between one bull and the panicked herd.
The startled young bull ducked left in a splay of dirt and on impulse slashed his horns at his pursuer. The veteran warrior anticipated the buffalo’s tactic and quickly reined his pony, slowing to a position slightly behind the young bull and isolating it from the main herd.
Enraged and desperate, the bull dug his hind legs into the soft earth and in a nimble movement spun about to face his tormentor. He pawed furiously at the ground and kicked great billows of dirt onto his back as a warning.
The remaining Comanche riders raced up and surrounded the buffalo. Encircled, the angry young bull bellowed, snorted great puffs of steam from his lungs and swung his head menacingly from side to side.
The lead Comanche warrior removed an arrow from his quiver and raised it high above his head. He fitted the arrow in his bowstring and began a slow rhythmic chant.
Come, come, come, my brother.
Come and hear my song.
Come running down the prairie
And let me honor you.
The buffalo instinctively turned in a tight circle, snorting and watching each predator’s movement. When the animal turned away, the lead warrior shot a flint-tipped arrow into the beast’s back just below the shoulder.
Shocked, the animal jumped and issued a deep guttural howl then lowered his head and charged his attacker.
The warrior re-fitted an arrow and raced toward the maddened bull. He passed the animal on the left and sent a well-placed shot behind the beast’s shoulder and down into its heart. The buffalo stumbled, tried to regain its feet and bellowed once more.
“A bad sign?” Big Bow asked, staring transfixed at the spectacle below.
Maman-ti nodded. “I thought Big Bow doubted medicine signs.”
“Big Bow may say he rejects Maman-ti’s prophecy, but inside he knows the Owl Prophet carries strong medicine.” White Horse slapped his chest and
smiled at Big Bow. “The many Kiowa victories over the whites speak loudly to this.”
Big Bow shifted uncomfortably on his mustang at White Horse’s pronouncement of Maman-ti’s magical power. The Kiowa war chief had fought in many battles and his muscular body showed many scars. He shook his lance toward the canyon floor and glared at White Horse. “Only a Kiowa’s courage wins victories, not a dead owl.”
Maman-ti smiled and glanced up at the cloudless sky. “It is too early for the sun dance. The Comanche make a sham of our custom.” He swept an upward palm toward the Comanche warriors. “Their medicine will be weak because they do not give proper honor to the spirits.”
On the canyon floor, the buffalo killer stood over the dead beast and withdrew a large knife from his belt. He made a slash across the bridge of the animal’s nose, then ran the blade all the way to the animal’s tail. When he had scalped the young bull, he rolled the hide into a bundle, held it high over his head and re-mounted his pony. With the sun at his back, the buffalo killer rode to the east and the intertribal camps.
The remaining four warriors followed at a respectable distance behind the buffalo killer. They chanted of their victory in a high-pitched song.
Thank you Great Spirit
for the medicine gift
from my buffalo brother.
I honor him with this song.
“The Comanche should have listened to the Owl Prophet.” Maman-ti shook his head in disbelief. “The ceremonial buffalo must be killed with one shot.”
“So what does your owl tell you?” Big Bow asked in disdain.
Maman-ti kept his focus on the canyon floor and ignored Big Bow’s disrespect. “The wolf prophet of the Comanche, Esatai, will be turned away by the buffalo spirit; the Comanche will suffer greatly for their disobedience. Quanah is blinded by revenge and uses the sun dance for war, not prayer. Any who follow him to the Adobe Walls will suffer as well.”
White Horse had aligned with the Comanche years earlier, but still loathed their arrogance. Now he grinned, satisfied with Maman-ti’s prediction. “What would the owl puppet have the Kiowa do?”
Maman-ti looked to the east. “We will stay on Elk Creek and hold our sun dance at mid-summer as our tradition demands.”
“We should be fighting the whites, not dancing.” Big Bow snarled. “Each day more white hunters come to our land and kill our buffalo.”
“Patience, Big Bow. The owl puppet will speak again after the sun dance. And he will show Maman-ti the place of the next Kiowa victory.”
Chapter Two
Camp Supply, Indian Territory, June 1874
Near the convergence of Wolf Creek and the Beaver River, Camp Supply rose majestically from the western prairie of the Cherokee Outlet. The imposing fortification featured a palisade of vertical timbers that surrounded the camp headquarters and parade ground. The stockade towered ten feet into the air and the adjoining block houses each held a four-foot parapet.
From a ridge south of the camp, Free Anderson, a mustanger, whistled loudly at first sight of the military stronghold. Even in the rising morning heat, the camp seethed in a blur of activity.
“That,” he said to partner and friend, Parks Scott, “is a might more than a camp.”
“You think the army is trying to keep the Indians out or the soldiers in?” Parks stared at the sprawling complex of tents, block houses, storehouses and soldiers quarters.
Free laughed. “Whichever it is, I bet they do it with little fuss.”
The men had left their homes in West Texas four days earlier and ridden three hundred miles to the United States Army’s “Camp of Supply.” Parks led a string of seven mustangs for delivery to the army’s chief civilian scout, Amos Chapman.
Free and Parks’ mustang business, S&A Mustang Works, had prospered as the army continued to increase its presence over the Western frontier. Their company operated out of Free’s homestead on the old Comanche Reservation in Throckmorton County, Texas.
Parks was a natural mustanger and developed his own method of capturing the wild beasts. “Walked down” was how he described the process. During the heat of summer, Parks would post a rider at a mustang watering hole. The horse’s fear of man kept them from going to the water, and the animals would circle for days, waiting for the human to leave. Once the rider departed, the thirsty horses would rush forward and drink their fill. After days without water, the cool liquid expanded in a mustang’s belly. Parks then roped these lethargic horses without subjecting them to a stressful chase.
These brutish horses, called the “nomads of the plains,” could run a hundred miles a day over the harshest terrain and never show the worst for it. An S&A mustang was the ultimate prairie mount and the only horse that could run an Indian pony down over any distance. Since 1871, the S&A mustang had become the horse of choice for civilian and Indian scouts on the Southern plains.
Free and Parks met Chapman in the fall of 1873 at Fort Griffin where Parks had held an exhibition for the 10th Cavalry. After demonstrations of cutting and racing, Horse, Park’s personal pony, drove a group of Longhorns from one end of the parade ground to the other without a rider and then herded them into a makeshift corral. When one steer tried to exit the rope pen, Horse grabbed the steer’s tail and dragged the animal back into the enclosure.
The S&A mustangs had so impressed Chapman that he sought out both men after the show and promised an order from Camp Supply when he returned to Indian Territory. Free still remembered the scout’s words, “A man scouting alone on the Cherokee Outlet and the Panhandle Plains of Texas needs a pony that can get from one end of the prairie to the other in quick order.”
Free and Parks clucked at their ponies and rode down from the ridge. They approached the southwest corner of Camp Supply and crossed the Fort Dodge supply trail. A long row of canvas tents rippled in the hot June wind on the far side of the military road. To the west, the lodge poles of a tipi towered above the tents and rose in stark contrast to the military structures.
Free pointed at the tipi and grinned. “I think we’ve found Amos’s quarters.”
The men dismounted and walked their ponies through tent row, past the bivouac where several columns of soldiers drilled on the trampled prairie. In the distance, a thin figure dressed in beaded buckskin brushed a tall-speckled mule.
“Amos!” Free called.
Amos Chapman, army scout and interpreter, was of mixed blood and married to the daughter of Cheyenne chief, Stone Calf. Amos was a valuable asset to the military. His knowledge of the two cultures helped bridge the gap of understanding between field commanders and their superiors. Around Camp Supply, Indians and soldiers alike called him “Squaw Man.”
Chapman turned and grinned. “Free. Parks,” he said. He bowed at the waist and gave a long sweeping gesture of his arm. “Welcome to Camp Supply.”
“How are you?” Free dismounted and walked up to the buckskin-clad scout.
“I can still air my lungs and I retain a fine head of hair.” Amos extended a hand in Free’s direction.
“That is a fine accomplishment in this country.” Free shook the army scout’s hand.
“And those must be my mustangs.” Amos looked past Free at the string of ponies.
“The best of the best.” Parks hopped off Horse and offered the string to Amos.
The scout carefully eyed the stock. “These mustangs have traveled from Texas in hundred degree heat and they still look as fresh as a daisy, Parks,” he said. “Better than the Cayuse the army provides for me.”
“Take the grulla for your own, Amos. She’s the top of the lot.” Parks untied a series of half hitches holding the ponies on the string.
Amos accepted the woolly gray mare and brushed his hand along her short back. “She’s ugly as a mud fence,” he chuckled.
“Don’t judge her by looks, Amos. This girl will outrun any horse on the Cherokee Outlet.”
“You made a believer of me last fall at Fort Griffin, Parks. I’d be proud to sit atop her.�
�
After the mustangs were distributed to Amos’ scouts, the men stood in Indian fashion around a Cheyenne cooking pot and speared large cubes of meat with their knives. “Seems a man would fare well defending himself here,” Free said.
“The Indians know that as well.” Chapman pointed around the camp. “In the mornings, the Cheyenne and Kiowa come in peaceful like and trade with the merchants. In the afternoon, they ride the supply trails, stealing horses and other goods. The next day, they’re back in camp ready to trade again.”
“That has to be aggravating to a soldier,” Parks said.
“It’s just the Indian way,” Amos replied. “They don’t regard stealing in the same light as you or I. To them, a man who can’t defend his own belongings does not deserve to own them. That noise you hear echoing across the prairie is the sound of two cultures butting heads like a pair of rutting bulls. It’s a...”
“Scout Chapman!” A deep voice boomed from tent row.
The men’s attention turned to the interruption and watched as a tall lieutenant with a bushy mustache strode toward them.
“Lieutenant Baldwin,” Amos greeted him respectfully.
The lieutenant walked past Free and Parks, oblivious to the two, and approached Amos. “May I have a word?”
“Certainly, Lieutenant. But, first please meet the mustangers I told you about.”
The lieutenant turned and looked at the two Texans. “Oh. Yes, please excuse my rudeness, gentlemen.” The lieutenant touched the brim of his hat. “It is my pleasure.” He feigned a smile. “Amos has spoken very highly of you and your mounts.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Free responded. “Please don’t let us interrupt your business.”
The lieutenant nodded politely and then turned his attention back to Amos. “I need to ask that you make preparations at once to ride out to Adobe Walls.”
“What’s the difficulty, Lieutenant?”
“According to Bill Lee, two Cheyenne braves were in his store this morning. They were going on about a war council on the Elk Creek and how the Comanche were going to hold a sun dance.”