“I am Teepee That Stands Alone. I fight for The People. Who do you fight for? Who calls you the chief of The People? You dress as a taibo. You smell like a taibo. You eat this stupid food of the taibo. You sell the grass of The People to these fool Pale Eyes so that they can feed us their cows. Food for the weak. I want to eat buffalo. I want to see the buffalo return.”
“So do I,” Quanah said softly. “But this will not happen.”
“No. For you will not let it happen. And you . . .” His face hardened as he stared at Coyote Chaser. “What of you?” Teepee That Stands Alone said.
Coyote Chaser stared at his bowl of peach ice cream.
“You are no leader. Your power is bad. You are no better than Maman-ti of the Kiowas. You are lower than Maman-ti. You curse all of The People yet you brag of how the Yamparika are the only true people. So I curse you, for all that you have done. Hear me. I am Kwahadi. I am the last true Kwahadi. I am all that is left of The People.”
Facing Quanah again. “I did not want to come here. You made me come.”
“I asked you to come,” Quanah said. “I seek your foresight. Always I have heard your counsel.”
“But you never listen. You bring us away from the buffalo, from the great plains where once we roamed at our will. You bring us to die slowly among the Long Knives and other Pale Eyes. You bring us to a place of sickness. You brought a curse onto my son. The curse of whiskey. You sent my granddaughter to The Land Beyond The Sun. You will sell our homes to the taibo. Turn us all into taibo. I do not wish to be here.”
Quanah nodded. “Then go.” He found Daniel, speaking with his eyes.
“Come on,” Daniel told Patty Mullen. “I need to escort Teepee That Stands Alone back to the hotel.”
“What was he saying? Why is he so angry?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. You might want to interview Teepee That Stands Alone for your paper. I’m not sure he’ll talk to a Pale Eyes woman, but his story is right for the Temperance Leader.”
He donned his hat, crossed the room, surprised to find the face of Teepee That Stands Alone streaked with tears. Coyote Chaser was also crying.
“You will take care of him,” Quanah told Daniel.
“It will be done,” Daniel said in Comanche. He held out his right hand, but the tall puhakat stepped back.
“You are more taibo, too,” Teepee That Stands Alone said. “But you were stolen from us. And you honored The People by fighting the taibo. Your face, your nose carry the wounds you earned, even if the wounds are covered with taibo medicine. Your heart is sometimes good.” He lowered the lance, and cast a look of disgust at Quanah and Coyote Chaser. “Unlike these.”
“I will take you back to the hotel,” Daniel said.
“I do not wish to go to that place. I want to go home.”
Daniel nodded. “You will. But first we must return to the Pale Eyes’ place.”
He stared at Patty Mullen. “Who is this ugly woman?”
“She is called Patty Mullen. She wishes to talk to you. She fights with words, but her words are read by many. She wishes to punish the taibo who bring whiskey to our land. She wishes to avenge your granddaughter who is no more.”
Teepee That Stands Alone spit. “I will not talk of such things to a taibo woman.”
“You do not have to. But she is a friend. She wants to help us. And we should leave this place.”
“I leave this place.” He shifted the lance, leaning the carved wooden point at Patty Mullen, grinning. “Tell this taibo woman this . . . in the old days, I would have taken this woman. I would have used her as I wanted to, then passed her around to the warriors who rode with me. Then I would have cut her throat, pulled out her heart and liver, eaten them raw. I would have left her to the coyotes and wolves. I would have taken her scalp, but would have no use for such an ugly, pale thing. I would have stuck it in her mouth. That is the way of The People. The way things would be. The way things should be. You will tell her this.”
“I will not tell her this,” Daniel said, “because I know you, Teepee That Stands Alone, and I know you would never have done such things.”
“No?” He straightened, turned his rage on Daniel. “What would you know, a boy raised by Pale Eyes, a boy whose mother was not even one of The People?”
Daniel fought down his anger, found wisdom from Quanah Parker. Quanah had let the puhakat rage on, had controlled his temper, would never let cattlemen, store clerks, and gawkers on the street see The People fight among themselves.
“I know that the puha of the great Teepee That Stands Alone cannot wear, cannot touch anything that is not made by The People. Teepee That Stands Alone would not disgrace himself on a taibo woman. Or his puha would be destroyed. The puha of Teepee That Stands Alone was always great. Rarely would he fight, for his power was in his wisdom, his medicine, not a war lance, and, when he fought, he fought men. Not women. That much I know, Teepee That Stands Alone.”
The old man’s shoulders slouched. His voice softened. “I do not wish to be in this place any more,” he said, his voice breaking.
“Let us go,” Daniel said, and took the puhakat’s arm.
“Do I have to talk to this woman?”
“Only if your heart tells you to do so.”
“We shall see. After I smoke my pipe. Will you smoke with me, my son?”
“It would honor me to do so.”
* * * * *
Exhaustion would soon overtake him. Softly he pulled the door closed, and walked down the carpeted hallway with Patty Mullen.
“What a sad, sad man,” she said. “What a terrible story.”
“Yes.” It was all Daniel could think to say.
“Whiskey kills.” She sounded as tired as Daniel felt.
“Yes.”
“It kills everything it touches. It killed my father. Did I tell you that?”
He shook his head.
“We lived in Omaha. Omaha, Nebraska. My father was an alki-stiff. Ever heard of that?”
“No.”
“They wouldn’t let him in the saloons any more, so he drank druggists’ alcohol. Till it killed him.”
“I am sorry.”
She stopped, leaned against the paneled wall near a gas lamp. “Do you believe in visions, Daniel?”
He studied her without answering.
“I’ve been fighting for the wrong people. Fighting for my people. White men, women, and children. I had no idea how bad whiskey was on the reservation. I had no idea. I’m changing the name of my newspaper, Daniel. The Dallas Temperance Leader is too small, too narrow. It has to be the National Temperance Leader. And the story of you, of the Comanches, of Teepee That Stands Alone will be the center . . . no, the entire . . . focus of the new edition.”
She came close to him then, closer than he liked, but he did not move. Couldn’t move. She no longer smelled of newspaper ink, and he tried to swallow. Her smile was lovely, but footsteps sounded softly on the stairs, and, by the time a sweating man with a big mustache appeared on the second floor, Patty Mullen was leaning against the wall again.
“Sergeant Killstraight?” the man gasped.
“Yes?”
“Telegram for you.”
Daniel took the envelope, tried to find his money purse, but the man insisted there was no charge, no tip necessary, and then he hurried down the stairs. Daniel opened the envelope, pulled out a slip of yellow paper.
WHITE WHISKEY RUNNER MURDERED STOP BODY FOUND IN HILLS FERRY STOP WAGON BURNED THROAT CUT THIGH SLASHED SCALPED STOP NO WITNESS STOP MEET YOU IN WICHITA FALLS STOP HP NOBLE DEP US MARSHAL
Chapter Fifteen
He stepped off the Fort Worth and Denver Railway car and onto a crowded platform, wanting to use his luggage to push through the taibos in their broadcloth suits and big hats, wanting to find Deputy Marshal Harvey P. Noble, but he stopped, turned, held out his free hand, and helped Teepee That Stands Alone climb down from the passenger car. Quanah Parker, Coyote Chaser, and the other Indians follo
wed.
“I want to go home,” Teepee That Stands Alone said in the language of The People.
“Haa,” Daniel said. “Kemarukwisu.” But thinking: Not soon enough, though. He looked at Quanah, saying: “We should find the Long Knives.”
Quanah nodded, and Daniel led the Comanches and Kiowas off the platform, down the street, and to the wagon yard on the north end of town. The bluecoats were pretty much where they had left them, stretched out on the hay, in the shade, playing cards with about a half-dozen bottles sitting in a bucket of water. Beer bottles. Two of them empty. Daniel watched one trooper pull one out, open it, and take a long pull. Dark glass, though, not ceramic stoneware. Not ginger beer.
The sergeant looked up, grunted something, and tossed his cards onto the ground. “How was your trip?”
“Good,” Daniel said.
The sergeant squinted. “What the Sam Hill happened to your face?”
“It’s a tough town,” Daniel said, and the soldiers laughed.
“Tougher than this town,” one of the bluecoats added. “Not a damned thing to do here but play cards, watch the dust blow, and drink beer.”
“Beats being back at Sill,” another said.
“Damned right.”
The sergeant sighed. “Reckon we should get ready to move out.”
Daniel pressed his lips together. Not yet, he thought. “If you don’t mind, Sergeant,” he said, “it’s late. Teepee That Stands Alone is depressed. Something’s bothering Coyote Chaser. Probably sick from the rocking train. Perhaps we should wait till first light.”
“Suits me,” one soldier said. “I’m in no hurry to get back to Sill and that idiot Lieutenant Newly.”
“It would suit you, Dutchie,” the sergeant said, keeping his eyes on Daniel. “You’re winning.” He stared at Daniel for a while, then at the Comanches and Kiowas finding cool spots in the stable. “But I reckon we could wait till morn. Give me a chance to get some of my money back.”
“Have you seen a deputy marshal?” Daniel asked. “Name of Harvey P. Noble?”
“No.” The sergeant had turned, gathered his cards, and the deck, while the man named Dutchie clawed at the coins and greenbacks left in the center. As the bluecoat dealt another hand, Daniel looked at the soldiers. He cleared his throat.
“Where’s O’Malley?” Daniel asked.
“Gone,” the sergeant said.
“Gone? Gone where? I need to talk to him.”
The soldiers were more interested in their cards than anything Daniel had to say.
“Where is he?” Daniel put more urgency in his voice. “I need to find him.”
“So does Lieutenant Newly. So does the provost marshal. He run off.”
“Run off? Where?”
The sergeant tossed his cards onto the ground with a curse. “Hell, I can’t even deal myself a decent hand.”
“It’s pretty important,” Daniel said.
“So’s desertion.” The sergeant turned back to Daniel. “I don’t know where that loud-mouthed mick run off to. Deserters generally don’t tell me things like that.”
“He deserted.” Daniel tested the fact, not liking it.
“Don’t reckon he run back to Fort Sill,” Dutchie said, and bet $5.
“Shouldn’t you . . . ?” Daniel stopped himself. No need to irritate the sergeant more. The bluecoats knew their business, and, if they’d rather play cards than go chasing a deserter, that was their business.
“I’m going to look for Marshal Noble,” Daniel announced. “Be back as soon as I can.”
“Make sure that you do.” The sergeant turned back to reach for a beer. “Newly will want to nail my hide because of O’Malley. I don’t need your agent gunning for me, too.”
As he turned to go, another man entered the wagon yard, and Daniel stopped, not believing. His grin widening, Nácutsi walked until he stood right in front of Daniel.
“Why aren’t you in jail?” Daniel asked in Comanche. His temper flared, but he controlled his voice.
“You want to arrest me again, Metal Shirt? You want me to split your head open again? Even though somebody else has done it.”
The soldier known as Dutchie suddenly called out to the Kwahadi. “Hey, Gunpowder. Welcome back. Come over here and sit in this white man’s game!”
Daniel barely heard the words. Clenching his fists, facing that damned dog of a Kwahadi who wanted to court Rain Shower, he said: “Ben Buffalo Bone and Twice Bent Nose brought you to jail. You were running whiskey.”
The warrior laughed. “I run nothing. Your Pale Eyes laws are nothing against my puha. I am free. My case dismissed. I am too important to rot away in some taibo jail like Toyarocho. I am a wolf for these bluecoats. I am free. But if you want to arrest me again, Metal Shirt, please.” The smile vanished. “Try it.”
Daniel fought down the anger, pushed Nácutsi aside, left the wagon yard as quickly as possible, the Comanche brave’s cackles following him like smoke from a campfire.
* * * * *
“Nácutsi should be in jail.”
“I can’t help you, Daniel,” Vaughan Coyne said. “Judge Goodman dismissed the charges.”
“He was running whiskey,” Daniel argued. “Ben Buffalo Bone said he found whiskey in his lodge . . . ‘Too much for one man to drink.’ The same ginger beer bottles that Blake Browne had, that Seven Beavers had.” He broke a taboo of The People, speaking the name of a dead man, but Daniel did not care. “That is what Ben Buffalo Bone told me. They brought him to jail. And now he is free.”
The young attorney sighed. “There was no proof, Daniel, that he was running whiskey. There was no proof, or little proof, that it was his whiskey. From what I’ve heard, Judge Goodman had to let Gunpowder go.”
“He hit me,” Daniel said, knowing he sounded like a child, but he couldn’t help it. “Used one of those damned bottles.”
“That’s a matter for your Court of Indian Offenses, Daniel. You know that better than I do. It’s not for a white man’s court. I’m sorry.”
With a defeated sigh, Daniel reached for the cup of coffee. The lawyer was right. It was over. Nácutsi was free. He’d return to the reservation with the others tomorrow. There was nothing Daniel could do. File a complaint? Let Quanah don his robe and act like a judge? No, Quanah was smarter than that. He’d know what truly maddened Daniel, and it wasn’t the fact that Nácutsi had laid Daniel out with a whiskey bottle, wasn’t even the fact that Daniel knew that Nácutsi—how could that man be Kwahadi?—was part of that gang of whiskey runners. It was all about Rain Shower.
What could a bright, beautiful Kotsoteka girl see in an arrogant dog with a violent temper? A whiskey drinker? A son-of-a-bitch?
“What did you learn in Dallas?” Coyne asked.
Daniel shrugged. “The place that made those beer bottles burned to the ground.”
“That’s great news, Daniel. That means there will be no more whiskey bottles. No more bottles. No more whiskey. Right?”
He drank coffee instead of answering. Vaughan Coyne was damned naïve. There would always be whiskey bottles. There would always be whiskey.
“What else?” Coyne asked. “And, forgive me if I’m intruding, but . . . well . . . what in God’s name happened to you? You look like you got run over by a locomotive.”
He told him. About the thugs near the Trinity River. About Carl Quantrell, at least, the parts he could remember. About Patty Mullen, the temperance newspaper editor.
“Good thing she happened along,” Coyne said. “Quantrell would have killed you.” He pointed to the healing cut above his right eye. “Like he almost killed me.”
“Lucky,” Daniel said. “Both of us.”
The lawyer dropped his head. “I don’t feel lucky.”
“I don’t, either.”
“Feel like . . . I don’t know . . . lost.”
“I thought I had something,” Daniel said. “Well, I learned something.” He told his lawyer about Fenn O’Malley, how the soldier had won Coursey
& Cox gambling in Dallas.
“We need to talk to this soldier.” Vaughan Coyne sounded like a different man, a fighter, ready to attack, but Daniel shook his head.
“He’s gone. Deserted.”
“Damnation!” Coyne’s right fist knocked a book off his desk. “Every time we get something, we lose it.”
“I still have nothing,” he said. “Nothing to go on. Nothing to stop these bad men.” He slid the empty cup onto the attorney’s desk. “What did you find in Teepee City?”
Coyne sighed. “Probably less than you discovered in Dallas. There’s nothing in Teepee City. Well, there’s no Uvalde Ted Smith, and nobody I talked to knew . . . at least, they wouldn’t admit to knowing . . . Blake Browne.”
“Another whiskey runner was killed in the territory,” Daniel said.
“What?”
Daniel fished out the telegram. “North of Hill’s Ferry,” he said. “Same as Blake Browne. White man, scalped, his thigh slashed. I’ve been looking for Marshal Noble. I need to find him. We return to the reservation tomorrow.” He stopped, ran what he had just said through his mind, and repeated three words, almost in a whisper. “His thigh slashed.”
“Yes?” Coyne said. “Like the other one. Indian mutilation.” He tried to cut off the word, but couldn’t, dropped his head again, and looked up sheepishly, apologizing. But Daniel was headed for the door. Vaughan Coyne called his name. “I didn’t mean anything, Daniel. I . . .”
“Huh? I didn’t even hear what you said.” Daniel opened the door, headed into the fading light, hearing his lawyer’s words: “We will win this battle. Justice isn’t always swift, but it’s usually just. Trust me.”
* * * * *
He was worried. Harvey P. Noble said he’d be in Wichita Falls, but Daniel hadn’t found him. The sheriff, the town marshal, his attorney, a clerk at the courthouse—nobody had seen Noble, at least not recently. Daniel couldn’t wait. He had to leave with the soldiers and Indians in the morning. His trip to Texas would end in failure. He couldn’t find Harvey Noble. Nácutsi was free. He couldn’t even interrogate Fenn O’Malley.
“Boys, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again . . . I surely hate to leave Wichita Falls,” one of the soldiers said in the wagon yard, and laughed.
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