Ambush At Mustang Canyon

by Mike Kearby

  The Cheyenne settled on the main stream, and the Kiowa, who reached the Palo Duro last, made camp a mile from the Cheyenne villages.

  For many winters, Mustang Canyon had also provided protection from the unpredictable and harsh Texas weather. This year, wave after wave of rainstorms moved through the Palo Duro, and turned the canyon floor into a muddied quagmire. In recent weeks, the storms brought with them bitter cold air that provided the camps with little opportunity to dry out.

  In the Kiowa camp, Maman-ti woke early. A bad spirit had visited him in the night. The spirit invaded his mind and showed him a frightful vision. An endless line of ta-’ka-i marched down the areca trails and into the villages. The ta-’ka-i walked in front of their horses and each carried a repeating rifle on his shoulder. The canyon filled with dark smoke as they fired their weapons and a mournful chant arose from all the lodges.

  Owl Prophet!

  Where is your medicine this morning?

  Why did the Great Spirit not pity us?

  Why are the ta-’ka-i killing us so?

  Owl Prophet?

  Maman-ti lay on a bed of buffalo hides and stared outside at a gray and dreary day. A slight drizzle hung in the air and water dripping from the tipi’s flap formed a puddle in the doorway. The dream chant continued in his head and Maman-ti pushed both hands hard against his ears with the hope that the song would go away. After several minutes, he jumped to his feet and scrambled to the world outside.

  In the soaking drizzle, Maman-ti held a hand over his eyes and trudged in gluey mud toward the Comanche village. His mind whirled with regret of bringing his people to the Palo Duro. Big Bow had arrived two days earlier in the Kiowa camps, but a rumor circulated this morning that his per sis tent detractor and ten Kiowa warriors prepared to leave for the staked plains with a band of Kwahada. Maman-ti knew if the rumor was true, it might show a loss of confidence in his medicine by other war chiefs.

  Maman-ti entered the Comanche camp and headed for the tipi of a friend, Chief O-ha-ma-tai. O-ha-ma-tai’s tipi was a magnificent structure composed of twenty-four sewn hides around four main pine lodge poles. The tipi was the largest structure within the village and on occasion, served as a meeting place for war councils.

  O-ha-ma-tai sat in the open flap of his tipi and watched the intensifying drizzle outside. He was a squat man with a prominent nose and reddish skin. Flat leather cord decorated his hair and long black braids draped off his shoulders onto his chest.

  “Haw-lo, Maman-ti.” He scooted back into the tipi and motioned for his friend to enter. “The Great Spirit gives us much water this moon.”

  Maman-ti nodded tight lipped and slipped inside. “Maybe too much.”

  “Aw-no. The People can never have too much water.” He shook his index finger from side to side. “What brings my friend here today with so much trouble drawn on his face?”

  Maman-ti grinned at O-ha-ma-tai’s observation.

  “My face is like the rock painting, O-ha-ma-tai. A man can see the art, but sometimes it is difficult to figure out what the artist drew.”

  O-ha-ma-tai laughed. “Yes. That is true.” He reached to his side and picked up a long leather pouch that held his pipe. He slid the hand carved pipe from its cover and packed the trough with leaf. “Come. Relax and have a bowl.”

  Maman-ti nodded and sat across from the Comanche chief.

  O-ha-ma-tai pulled a slender burning twig from the fire pit and lit the tobacco. Facing the tipi opening, he held the pipe with outstretched arms toward the east and bowed his head. After a quiet prayer, he drew a deep lungful of smoke and blew the plume out of the tipi opening. “Thank you, Great Spirit,” he prayed aloud, “for taking pity on The People.” After the required offering, O-hama-tai passed the pipe to Maman-ti.

  Maman-ti took the pipe and bowed to O-ha-ma-tai. He took a deep puff and closed his eyes as the smoke rushed to his brain. He exhaled a great cloud of smoke and offered his thanks to O-hama-tai,“.”

  “”

  Maman-ti felt his body relax and he passed the pipe back to O-ha-ma-tai. “I need to ask, old friend; has Quanah and his band left the canyon?”

  O-ha-ma-tai drew on the pipe and exhaled in a whoosh. “This very morning with Black Horse and his band. Why?”

  “And does Big Bow ride with them?”

  “Yes.” O-ha-ma-tai shook his head, “I do not know this warrior Big Bow very much. But he was angry and sang a long chant as he left this morning. I will tell you, Maman-ti, Big Bow made some of the Comanche nervous with his chant. He sang of soldiers coming to the canyon and killing The People.”

  Maman-ti stared past the tipi flap, oblivious to his surroundings and O-ha-ma-tai’s presence. He recalled his last encounter with Big Bow on the Washita. They argued about where the Kiowa women and children would be free from harm. Big Bow insisted Elk Creek offered the greatest protection. But Maman-ti had disagreed. He was the prophet to the Kiowa people, not Big Bow. Mamanti could not allow any detractor to weaken his medicine by dictating where the bands would winter. Shocked by Big Bow’s open challenge, Maman-ti lied and proclaimed the owl puppet had spoken to him in a dream about this very subject. He knew the warriors would heed the puppet’s words.

  He had broken the spirit’s trust and invoked his own words as those of the owl puppet. Now, those same words rushed at him with the speed of an arrow and might destroy his people. His mouth gaped open and his eyes widened.

  “What is it, Maman-ti?”

  Maman-ti turned to his friend with a questioning look. “Huh?”

  “What troubles you so that not even the pipe calms your feelings?”

  Maman-ti closed his mouth and regained his composure. “It is nothing, old friend. But I must leave you now.”

  “As you say.”

  Maman-ti thrust his chest forward and rose from the tipi floor. “Thank you for the pipe, O-hama-tai.” He turned and exited with graceful confidence.

  As he slogged through the mud, he reassured himself that an enemy had never breeched the canyon’s shelter. He issued a false smile as he strode through the villages, but inside his stomach churned in great agitation and a throbbing pain dulled his senses.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Tule Canyon, Texas, September 1874

  Under a heavy mist, Free and Parks held their horses to a fast gait and raced down a side ravine of Tule Canyon. The men had pushed their ponies hard for the past hour, running through muck and skirting fallen rock. The recent storms had left whole sections of the cliff face unstable and dangerous. They had ridden sixty miles since morning and hoped to reach the Fourth Cavalry before nightfall. The lathered ponies flung small dabs of mud into the air and the wet earth dotted both men’s faces.

  After the incident with Tafoya, Mackenzie demanded that all of his scouts were to stay mounted until they found a trail that would lead him to the winter camps. Over thirty Tonkawa and Seminole-Negroes scoured the Palo Duro for sign, and each hoped to be the man who handed the Comanche over to Mackenzie.

  Free and Parks had remained silent about their encounter with To’sa-woonit, and prayed that the Comanche warrior would leave the canyon with his people.

  As the rugged path snaked around a large deadfall of rock, the main trail of the Tule greeted the men. Without slowing, they urged the horses into the wide canyon, and rode into a quag of fresh Indian sign.

  Parks pulled hard on Horse’s reins and flipped the mustang’s head up. Horse snorted as he slipped in the mire and came to a halt on shaky legs. Parks looked over Horse’s right side and studied the muddy pool of prints. Heading to the southwest, a hundred or more unshod pony tracks littered the canyon floor. “I hope these are Kwahada tracks.”

  “To’sa-woonit?”

  “Maybe. Or they could be Kiowa,” Parks stared at the prints, “or even Cheyenne.”

  “Maybe To’sa-woonit listened to us and decided to leave the canyon?” Free leaned over his saddle and studied the ground.

  “We can hope that’s what
these tracks say.”

  “Let’s follow them, Parks, and see where they lead.”

  “Free, we’ve done all we can. We’ve willfully disobeyed orders by not informing Mackenzie of the Indian camp locations. And whether To’sawoonit heeds our warning or not, the villages won’t stay hidden much longer.”

  “But, Parks, the military has never located the winter camps before.

  Even when Mackenzie chased the Kwahada here in ’71, he didn’t locate the main village.” Free held a cupped hand upward and allowed the falling mist to accumulate in his palm. “And this weather has to favor the Indians.”

  “Free, you and I both know the fight is coming. We’ve heard gunfire all day throughout these canyons. Mackenzie is determined to locate the Indian camps this time and the ’71 campaign taught him that to beat the Indians; he has to become an Indian.”

  “Maybe we should go to the Cheyenne and Kiowa and tell them what we told To’sa-woonit.”

  Parks snapped his hat from his head and dragged a sleeve across his forehead. “Dang-it, Free! Listen to yourself. You’ve got a wife and kid back home. We’re not going to get ourselves killed by riding into the hostile villages. We’ve done all we can.”

  “So that’s it? That’s all? We just ride off and let the killing happen?”

  Parks dragged his hat back on his head. “That’s it. The Tonkawa will lead Mackenzie to the camps, Free. You can bet on that. The colonel has promised the Tonkawa all the Comanche horses and possessions they can carry once the camps are located.”

  “I don’t figure I can just sit by while all this happens, Parks.”

  “You can’t think like that, Free. Tafoya sealed the Indian’s fate. With his directions, the Tonkawa will locate the camps. You had nothing to do with that.”

  Free dismounted and slammed his hat to the ground. He walked in a tight circle around the hat and flailed his arms about. “You know they’re going to kill everyone in those villages, Parks!”

  Parks jumped down from Horse and faced his friend. “They don’t have to, Free. For as hard as Mackenzie appears, he’s not a Custer or a Miles. He knows the buffalo slaughter is going to defeat the Indians. He doesn’t care for massacre. He only wants to follow orders and be a good soldier.”

  Free stopped pacing and grabbed his hat. “And what are his orders?”

  “To take the hostiles to Fort Sill.”

  “Then why is he pressing so hard to find the winter camps if he knows killing the buffalo will bring the Indians in?”

  “Because, I figure he’s set to burn every tipi in the canyon and then I ‘spect he’s going to capture every Indian pony.”

  “Whaaat?” Free began to pace again.

  Parks stared upward and let the mist fill his open mouth. “I’m certain that’s his intention,” he swallowed and wiped his face, “No buffalo. No tipis. No ponies. No more fighting.”

  The sudden realization of Park’s words caused Free to halt. “Mackenzie’s knows the Indians can’t survive the winter without horses or shelter.”

  Parks stepped up in the stirrups and slid onto his saddle. “Mackenzie’s going to take something more valuable than their lives, Free.”

  “Huh?” Free wondered. “What could be more valuable than a man’s life?”

  “Mackenzie aims to steal their souls. An Indian who can’t hunt and feed his band is a pathetic creature. Mackenzie knows this.” Parks tapped his temple. “When he’s finished in those villages, he’ll not only have trampled the tipis, he’ll have trampled the Indian spirit too.”

  Free seethed at Park’s words. “Then I’ve got one more idea.” He lifted the reins, gigged the Comanche pony, and galloped past Parks shouting, “We’ll tell Mackenzie that we found tracks leading out of the canyon. We’ll tell him we figure the bands are packing up and leaving.” He whipped the reins across the pony’s shoulders and raced headstrong for the Fourth Cavalry’s bivouac.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Mesa Blanca, Texas, September 1874

  Col. Mackenzie sat on the dead trunk of a mesquite tree and stared at Free and Parks. The men of the Fourth had set the tree near the command fire pit with the express purpose of giving the colonel a warm place to sit. The rain and mist had stopped earlier, but a chill hung in the fall air and showed itself with each soldier’s breath.

  Mackenzie sat upright and rigid. Deep in thought, he unconsciously flipped his wrist in a repetitive motion and caused the stumps of his blown-off fingers to pop against one another. The dull thud resounded around the camp and kept each soldier on high alert. The Colonel was nervous and anxious.

  “You are sure, Mr. Anderson, that a hundred or more hostiles are fleeing the canyon?”

  “That’s what the tracks indicated, Colonel. They headed southwest out of the Palo Duro.”

  Mackenzie rolled his gazed to Parks. “Can you suggest why they would leave in that direction, Mr. Scott?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.” Parks met the colonel’s gaze head-on.

  Mackenzie stood and rubbed his stumps. “The Tonkawa are certain the hostiles are massing around us to night. I think the hostiles are setting a trap for us, sirs. I learned a wonderful lesson in these same canyons some years ago.”

  “Yes, sir,” Free encouraged the Colonel’s recall.

  Mackenzie moved closer to the fire and stood with his back against the warming heat. “We captured Mow-way’s village, but the hostiles circled back on me and recovered not only their horses but many of my men’s mounts as well.” Mackenzie moved from the fire and stretched his back. “They even got my horse.” He studied Free’s eyes intently and then took his place back on the dead tree. “But, it won’t happen again, Mr. Anderson. I’m more than prepared for their treachery this time.”

  Maman-ti sat in O-ha-ma-tai’s tipi, surrounded by a council of chiefs. He had made a fateful decision earlier in the morning. He decided he could not risk his position as shaman and admit he had misused his power on the Washita. It is for the good of the people, he had told himself, and he was determined to lie again if necessary.

  The Cheyenne chief, Iron Shirt, rocked gently and said, “My warriors have found many signs of Tonkawa nearby.”

  Maman-ti observed the honored warrior and forced a smile, “But that is a good sign Iron Shirt. The Tonks are crisscrossing the canyon and cannot locate our lodges.”

  The Cheyenne chief frowned. “I hate these, Tonkawa,” he spoke in a soft voice, “they eat people and cannot be trusted. I wish we could kill them all.”

  Maman-ti nodded his agreement and looked over to O-ha-ma-tai. “The soldiers are too close. The owl puppet tells me we must attack to night and keep them from our lodges.”

  O-ha-ma-tai turned his palms upright and gently shook them up and down. “I am concerned, Maman-ti. If we show ourselves to night,” he flipped his palms over and pushed them downward, “Mackenzie will know we winter close by.”

  “Don’t worry, old friend.” Maman-ti lied, “the owl puppet gives me a great sign that the People will send Mackenzie’s Fourth running like dogs with their tails tucked behind them.”

  “How does your puppet say this will happen, Owl Prophet?” Iron Shirt leaned forward in great anticipation.

  Maman-ti gazed into Iron Shirt’s eyes and then turned to his side and looked at O-ha-ma-tai. “The owl puppet tells me to attack their horses.”

  Free and Parks sat clustered with a group of soldiers fifty yards to the front of the horse lines. Mackenzie had placed twenty skirmish lines five yards apart and well ahead of the horses in anticipation of a night attack.

  Parks pulled his tobacco pouch from inside his shirt and cut a small chaw from the rectangular plug. “Tobacco?” he motioned to the men in his detail.

  “Thank you, sir.” A young private took the offering, “My daddy always told me to never turn down free tabacky.”

  Parks grinned. “I’m sure your daddy was a smart man, soldier.”

  Free pushed a chaw into his jaw and took a deep breath. �
��I didn’t think Indians attacked at night?”

  “Bright as that moon is to night, it probably seems like day to them.” Parks gazed at the brilliant circle. “If they come, I reckon that the Colonel has gotten a little too close to their villages.”

  The private returned Park’s tobacco and looked back at the horses. “Old Colonel Mackenzie seems to have these red devils figured out, sir.”

  Parks nodded. “You’re right about that soldier. I’ve seen many a hobbled horse in my life, but I have never seen a horse hobbled front to front and then front to back.”

  “And then staked with an iron rod.” Free grinned.

  “I would bet a week’s pay, we needn’t worry about those horses stampeding to night.” Parks offered, “I just hope if the Indians do set upon us, that we don’t need those ponies as mounts.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Mustang Canyon, Texas, September 1874

  After meeting with the council, Maman-ti retired to his lodge and prepared to mix his war paint. As he entered his tipi, he removed a wide leather belt hanging above the flap. The belt was three feet long and painted with a line of blue owls. Spaced evenly along the belt were seven buffalo horns, each woven to the belt with horse hair, and corked with a small hide ball.

  He removed an intestinal pouch from one of the horns and held the pouch at eye level. Inside was his most prized white clay from New Mexico. He squeezed a handful of the clay into his palm and began to roll the earth. When the clay formed a long cylinder, he dropped it into a pot of hot water and grease. He stirred the mixture with a willow branch until the clay bubbled into a fine mud. Using his hands as brushes, he slathered the war paint over his entire body and then stood over the fire pit. The heat from the coals penetrated his skin and warmed the paint. He held his arms away from his body and turned in a tight circle around the fire. After several passes, the fire-baked paint adhered to his body.