by Mike Kearby
“Capt. Stevens, send a couple of men ahead and see if the trail holds fresh as they approach the hills.”
Capt. Stevens nodded and signaled for volunteers. Three men rode forward and moved ahead of the group. As the valley floor slowly turned to rock, the once visible trail disappeared. Looking back, one of the scouts shouted, “They’ve dried up, Captain!”
Maj. Jones stopped the Rangers and studied the landscape ahead with hesitation. After a brief moment, he called out, “OK men, spread out and let’s locate their trail!”
Capt. Stevens watched the men disperse from their column and begin the search for sign. He glanced ahead and squinted, unsure or not if his eyes were playing tricks on him. A hundred yards ahead, two Indians decked in full war garb sat atop ponies. He shaded his eyes and muttered to Maj. Jones, “My Lord. Look there, sir.”
Maj. Jones glanced over at Stevens and wrinkled his brow. He then slowly turned to the north end of the valley and saw the horsed warriors. “Jesse!” he muttered, and then called to his men, “Look up, boys! The red devils are ahead of you, and there’ll be plenty for all!”
To a man, the Ranger battalion raised their eyes from the trail and spotted the now fleeing ponies. Inexperienced in Indian fighting, the group immediately gave chase.
“Wait!” Capt. Stevens reined up his mount, recognizing the Indian ploy, “You’re riding straight into a trap!”
Chapter Twenty-three
Lost Valley, Texas, July 1874
The Kiowa warriors screamed down from the hills and met the Rangers head on. The un-suspecting Rangers found themselves surrounded without cover and trapped in Maman-ti’s snare.
Lone Wolf and Maman-ti turned their ponies around and charged back to the fight. Two Rangers immediately went down under a ferocious hail of gunfire. Maman-ti saw the Ranger commander regroup and begin a hurried scramble through the back of the Kiowa line, attempting to reach the cover of the dry creek.
Maman-ti signaled for the warriors to close their positions and cut off the path to the creek, but the desperate Rangers managed to push through and reach the gully. The Rangers scrambled from their horses in utter panic and jumped into the dry creek bed.
Maman-ti signaled a Kiowa retreat to the cover of the hillside boulders.
“Wait!” Lone Wolf screamed out, “We have them off their horses in the creek bed! Don’t rush away now!”
Maman-ti threw a hard glance at his friend, “Don’t be foolish, Lone Wolf. We have the Rangers where we want them. They hide under the high bank of the creek but are dismounted. And the only water hole is over a mile away. We will wait them out and take their scalps one by one.”
Lone Wolf glared at the Rangers and bit hard against his lip. “OK! OK!” he snarled and then rode toward the hill.
Later, with both sides firmly entrenched, the fighting turned from the chaos of face-to-face combat to occasional back and forth sniping. The July heat settled firmly on the land and descended into the thicketed creek bed like a gruesome weight. Even at a distance, Maman-ti could hear the suffering moans from the thirsty Rangers.
He turned to Hunting Horse and said, “Have the warriors shoot all of the Ranger horses still above the creek bed.”
Hunting Horse nodded and soon the methodical sound of rifle fire filled the air as the Kiowa began to kill the Ranger mounts.
Lone Wolf looked to Maman-ti. “Those are good horses for the taking. Why kill them?”
Maman-ti grinned diabolically, “Without their ponies, the Rangers will have to run for water. We will make them suffer in the heat until their mouths crack and their tongues swell. And when they finally decide they must have water, we will swoop down on them and take their scalps. For that is why we rode to Texas, old friend.”
As evening shadows began to cross the valley, the sweltering heat lingered on and prolonged the suffering of the Ranger battalion. The Kiowa warriors sat in the hills and laughed at the misery of their enemies in the creek bed.
At twilight, Lone Wolf caught a glint of movement on the east side of the creek. In a blur of black and white, he spotted two mounts galloping from the water hole. The Rangers’ white hats flashed through the grapevine thicket and exposed both riders. He motioned for Mamadayte to give chase, and soon twelve warriors raced to the valley floor hurrying to cut off the riders before they returned to their battalion.
The whoops and yips of the pursuing Kiowa spooked the mounted Rangers. One horse reared and refused to run, while the other Ranger made a hasty retreat to the south.
Mamadayte kicked at his pony’s flank and surged past the other warriors. He raced head-on for the frightened Ranger and using his long lance, separated horse and rider. With the Ranger down, he jumped from his pony and raced to the prone figure, first to count coup. With his courage noted by the others, he drew back the lance and drove it deep into the terrified Ranger’s chest.
Lone Wolf and Maman-ti arrived in quick haste and observed the dead
“I offer the Ranger’s scalp to Lone Wolf.” Mamadayte pointed at the dead man.
Lone Wolf growled at their prize and sang loudly.
Oh, Great Father,
Thank you for this victory.
I honor my son and nephew with
the scalp of my enemy!
“Good.” Maman-ti spoke, “You have done good, Mamadayte.”
Lone Wolf pulled a brass hatchet-pipe from his breechcloth and shook the weapon at the sky, “Let us remember our dead from the Adobe Walls!” he shouted.
Chapter Twenty-four
Catfish Creek, Texas, August 1874
Under a torturous sun, Free and Parks rode alongside a Tonkawa scout, who called himself Johnson. For the past hour, they spurred their ponies down the banks of the Salt Fork of the Brazos en route to the camp of the Fourth Cavalry. The summons from Col. Mackenzie had come two days earlier, and both men rode with anxious thoughts about their meeting.
As they cleared a sweeping bend in the river, Johnson reined his pony west and followed a small creek for several hundred yards until an encampment rose into view. The camp was as austere and bleak as the country that surrounded it. Several fires flickered in the morning heat, but not one tent stood pitched, although at least four companies occupied the area.
Parks looked over at Free and spoke from the side of his mouth. “Mackenzie has gained the reputation of whipping the Fourth into the best unit in the army.”
Free studied the camp and thought back to his war days, “Well it’s severely simple; I’ll give it that.”
Johnson heeled his pony hard and bounded off the horse in a quick motion. He grabbed the bridles of Horse and the Comanche mustang and motioned toward four men sitting on cut oak trunks at the far end of the camp. “Kenzie,” he said.
Free and Parks dismounted and walked toward to the colonel.
The slight officer stood as the men approached. “You must be Anderson and Scott,” he said with typical military assertiveness. “Please, let me introduce you to Capt. Beaumont, Second Battalion, Capt. McLaughlen, First Battalion and my chief of scouts, Lt. Thompson.” The colonel swept his hand toward the men.
“Captains. Lieutenant,” Free and Parks responded with a quick tip of their hats and then straddled a pair of oak stumps.
Even after being in the field for several weeks, Col. Mackenzie appeared well groomed with neatly trimmed hair and moustache. “Sorry to bring the both of you so far from your homes, but the army needs your help.” He extended a welcome hand toward Free.
Free noticed the colonel was missing two fingers on the outstretched hand. “War injury?” he asked.
Mackenzie pulled his hand back and looked at the two stumps. “A shell fragment hit me at Cold Harbor. I won’t complain though, as many men suffered much worse.”
Free nodded.
“Do you know what the Kiowa call me, Mr. Anderson?” Mackenzie returned to his seat and flicked his wrist, snapping the two damaged fingers against one another.
Free shook his head.
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“Mangomhente.”
Beaumont, McLaughlen and Thompson lowered their heads and remained quiet.
“It means bad hand. I think I might be the only officer with such a nickname by the hostiles,” he mused. “Were you in the war, Mr. Anderson?”
“Palmito Ranch, Colonel. Both Parks and myself.”
“Ahhh.” Mackenzie reflected, “Col. Ford and Col. Barrett. That was a very interesting battle. It was too bad for the Union that Col. Barrett was so inexperienced.”
Free smiled knowingly and pulled the leather pouch from around his neck. He removed a plug of tobacco and sliced a corner from the packed leaf. “Chaw?” he asked politely.
Mackenzie removed the cut tobacco from Free’s knife and pushed the brown square deep into his jaw. “I’m sure you are both aware that Gen. Sheridan has ordered five columns to advance on the Texas Panhandle,” he stated without extravagance. “The depredations by the different bands have finally hit a nerve in the highest offices of Washington.”
Parks pushed his hat back and raised his eyebrows. “Begging the Colonel’s pardon, but has Washington ever considered the possibility that continually breaking the 1867 treaty might be the cause of these, as you call them, depredations?”
Mackenzie smiled and then tightened his mouth, “I’m a soldier, Mr. Scott. I don’t try to figure who did what to whom and when. I only follow orders. And at the present time, my orders tell me to move north to the canyons and scourge every cliff and crevice and find the exact place where the hostiles winter.”
Free looked perplexed. “And when you find these camps, what then, Colonel?”
“They go to the reservation, or we kill them,” MacKenzie replied with little emotion. “But I can tell you we are close to ridding the prairies of these hostiles.”
“Excuse me, Colonel, but I don’t think you and I are biting from the same plug of tobacco.” Free reached up to his hat and scratched under the wide brim.
“I can tell you we are close, sir.”
“Colonel, my parents were born free people, yet lived as slaves. I was born a slave, but live free. My son was born free and will live free...”
“I appreciate your commentary, Mr. Anderson, but as I stated earlier, my job is to remove the hostiles from Texas.”
Free flushed and narrowed his eyes. “Even if you run all the hostiles to the reservations, Colonel, tomorrow another order will come from Washington and another hostile who looks different or believes different than you will need chasing. Ridding the prairie of these hostiles is your great hope, but for me and the people you chase, it’s just another day to fight for things the good Lord gave us outright.”
“I understand you share a unique relationship with many of the Kiowa and Comanche bands, Mr. Anderson, and I applaud you for that as I too respect the determination of their warriors. But, in the past few months, we have seen normal raiding parties turn into murdering attacks. The tribes have so increased their forays that we now count them daily. And so, Washington has ordered me to make them stop. And you can be sure that if needed I will hound the bands such that no rest came will ever come to them.”
“Do you think you can really accomplish that, Colonel?” Parks asked. “This is a large country.”
“Mr. Scott, my men have hardened themselves on this country. We have staggered through it, across it, around it, and up and down it. We have lived through drought, thunderstorms, spring snows, little sleep, and very little nourishment. We live like the very hostiles we pursue so vigorously. The men of the Fourth know the parties responsible for keeping them in such conditions. They will respond as needed in this campaign. I promise you they will be successful. I won’t let anything less happen.”
Free considered the colonel’s words, “And so what is it you expect from us?”
“I need for the two of you to locate your friend White Horse. I need for you to go into his camp, and then I need for you to come back and detail the camp location for me.”
Caught off guard, Free stared incredulously at Mackenzie. “Colonel, we got mixed up in the fighting at Adobe Walls, and the Kiowa know this. We no longer hold favor with White Horse. If we ride into their camp, they’ll kill the both of us.”
Col. Mackenzie rose and spread a tight smile, “That’s the least of your worries, Mr. Anderson.” He removed a folded piece of paper from his jacket, “For if you refuse this order from Gen. Sheridan, I have the authority to place both of you under arrest for consorting with an enemy of the United States during war time.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Catfish Creek, Texas, September 1874
Free bristled, “You’re arresting us?” he asked, incensed.
“If I need do so, Mr. Anderson. The choice is yours to make.”
“That’s some choice, Colonel. Ride into a certain death or rot in an army stockade.”
Col. Mackenzie checked the sun’s position in the morning sky. “Mr. Anderson, my companies will began pushing north within the hour. You have until that time to inform me of your decision.”
Free watched the colonel turn and walk away with a military stiffness. “That is one arrogant, little man.” Free spit tobacco juice at the colonel’s tracks.
“We’ve got some thinking to do, Free, and we best be quick about it.” Parks shielded his eyes and glanced at the sun.
Free fell back on the oak stump and rubbed his face with both hands. “What now? What choices do we have?”
Parks grabbed his wide brimmed hat, dusted it against his pant leg and took a seat next to Free. “You know this is exactly why I never took a wife.”
“What?” Free looked up, stunned.
“Don’t get me wrong. I envy you having a woman like Clara and a son like William Parks to share your life, but I always worried about falling into a situation like we seem to have landed in today. No cowboy should be made to ride a pony like the one the colonel has saddled for us.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t ever marry because of Mackenzie?”
“Men like him, Free. I figure we’re here because there are more people involved than just you and me. And because of that we’re not left holding much of a poker hand. And Mackenzie knows that. Now, if it were you and me alone, we’d just scatter out of here and take our chances. But we can’t do that; you’ve got Clara and William Parks to think about. And that is what Mackenzie is betting on.”
Free lowered his head and stared angrily into the dust at his feet. “I reckon that’s so, Parks. And it does burn my neck that Mackenzie has us saddled so.”
“I have a hunch though,” Parks slapped his hat back on his head. “A hunch that Mackenzie may not have it all figured out like he thinks.”
Free stood and whirled away from Parks, seething in building anger. “Well unless your hunch can solve our problem today, it appears we’re fixing to cut sign for the army,” he muttered.
Parks stood and placed a hand on his friend’s back, “We’ll ride north to the canyons for the colonel all right, but while we’re out searching, we best be thinking about how we want this thing to end.”
“I don’t follow,” Free searched Park’s face for an answer.
“Five columns of soldiers are pressing toward the Palo Duro. And those canyons won’t only be holding warriors, Free. They’ll also be full of women and children.” Parks walked briskly over to Horse and swung the reins over the mustang’s neck, “And I’ll be hanged before I lead the army on top of them.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Antelope Hills, Indian Territory, September 1874
Maman-ti sat at the head of a council of Kiowa chiefs assembled near a long sweeping bend of the Canadian River. He balanced his palms against his knees and rocked in a steady rhythm, gently inhaling the rising fume from the council fire. As the gray cloud darted and swirled in the morning air, he fanned two cedar branches and pulled the wispy smoke toward his body. He patted the smoke under his arms, along his neck and around his chest, bathing in its cleansing power. When he
completed the ritual, he used one of the cedar branches to etch two parallel lines in the soft earth.
Gray Horse, a Cheyenne brave, stood behind the Owl Prophet with his arms folded across a breastplate of eagle bones.
“Our Cheyenne brothers send word they have caught the ta-’ka-i Miles at the Prairie Dog Fork.” Maman-ti pointed to the first line in the dirt, “Once again, the ta-’ka-i have made a great mistake in their planning as Miles has exhausted his food supply.” Maman-ti pointed to the second line, “And now he sends wagons back to Camp Supply for much needed provisions.”
Lone Wolf smiled at the news. He felt certain Maman-ti had already come up with a plan that would guarantee a successful raid on the ta-’ka-i. He glanced around the council and was pleased to see most of the war faction chiefs present. Maman-ti’s visions and their favorable outcomes had managed to unite the Kiowa war chiefs. Something no other chief had accomplished.
“So does the Owl Prophet propose we attack Miles while his men suffer from lack of food?” Big Bow sneered, “or do we simply wait for them to starve?”
Maman-ti ignored his detractor and jumped to his feet. “No, the owl puppet says if we ride here,” he pushed the cedar branch into the earth at the far eastern point of the second line, “we will be able to lay siege to his lightly protected supply wagons.”
Maman-ti lay in shade beneath a formation of sandstone and gazed into the harsh glare of the morning sun. On the horizon, the dust of the army supply wagons spiraled skyward and pinpointed their positions. He glanced at Lone Wolf and motioned for the field glasses taken from the killed Ranger at the Lost Valley fight. He placed the glasses against his eyes and focused on the slow-moving column of men. “They form two lines with their wagons.”