Whiskey Kills

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Daniel straightened. “Dakota?”

  “That’s what he said. He said you’d understand. That’s another reason I sent for you.”

  “He didn’t happen to leave a note, did he?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “When will they be back?”

  “They requisitioned rations for six days. Ordinarily I’d say they’d return earlier, but not with the malaria and dysentery.”

  “Where were they going?”

  “I assume they’ll patrol the Red between Huupi and Hill’s Ferry. But you’d have to ask Lieutenant Newly. Well . . . no. I’ll ask him, and get word to you.”

  “Thanks.” He looked back at the weakening Yamparika, then turned suddenly toward Major Becker. “You said a case of bottles?”

  “Yes. They were cached in some rocks, not far from where they found that old man.”

  “Just one case?”

  “According to Sergeant Andrews and Trooper Brinkerhoff, yes.”

  A black soldier lying near a window cried out for the doctor.

  “I have to go, Sergeant. Is there anything else?”

  Probably, Daniel thought, but he shook his head, and the doctor began crossing the room, only to stop after a few steps, and turn around. He took a deep breath, choosing his words, glanced at Coyote Chaser, then, exhaling, stared at Daniel. “Can you . . . take care of . . . him?”

  “I’ll see to him,” Daniel said.

  * * * * *

  Ration day. A chorus of excited cries, of Comanche songs and English curses rose above the wind and rain that pelted the agency. Leviticus Ellenbogen grunted as he eased the dirty feet of Coyote Chaser onto a bunk in the far corner of the cabin.

  “I’m not sure how I got appointed this man’s nurse.” Ellenbogen straightened, and mopped sweat and rain water from his brow.

  Daniel pulled a sheet over the old man’s chest, placed a hand on his cheek, warm to his touch, and shook his head.

  “Reckon the Army threw him away same as the Comanch’,” Frank Striker said from the doorway.

  “A miserable life of barbarity,” Ellenbogen said. “Both Army and savage.” He looked cruelly at Daniel. “You people just toss an old man out.” He shook his head. “Your tribe’s customs make things hard for me to understand, Sergeant.”

  “It is hard sometimes for me to understand,” he whispered in Comanche.

  “What’s that?”

  “A Comanche prayer,” Daniel lied.

  Striker guffawed. “Comanches don’t pray.”

  “Well,” Ellenbogen said, “I shall attend him as best I can. The Army might not take care of him, but they will have to bury him.”

  “I’m sure them bluecoats will agree to that,” Striker said. “Rain’s startin’ to slack a mite. I’ll play nursemaid to this ol’ boy while y’all police the fandango outside.”

  Pulling his hat down, Daniel left Coyote Chaser’s cot and stepped outside. Ration day. The People refused to let the thunderstorm drown their joy, although Daniel saw little reason for their songs and laughter. Tejano cowhands had driven a herd to the agency corrals, and now old, young, and middle-aged men ran around shooting cattle while the cowboys and a few soldiers watched, some in awe, several in horror, many simply bewildered.

  At least the rain kept away the flies.

  Daniel sighed. Rain Shower was already at work, butchering a brindle steer beside her mother. Away from the corrals, Indians lined up to gather the rest of their supplies: flour, sugar, coffee, corn—much of it unfit to eat—soap, bolts of calico or linsey-woolsey, and, for some reason, boxes of jew’s harps. Oajuicauojué, Rain Shower’s younger sister, tested the cheap instrument, but quickly gave up.

  Jew’s harps. Daniel shook his head. Last month, or maybe the month before, the federal government had sent iron hoops for barrels. No barrels, just the iron hoops, good for nothing except scrap metal. As worthless as some of the food.

  As a member of the tribal police, Daniel received no rations. Maybe, he often thought, that was a blessing, although Ben Buffalo Bone’s family always shared what they got with their son and his loyal friend.

  “Keep that line in some semblance of order, Sergeant,” Agent Ellenbogen said as he walked quickly to the assistant agent to oversee the checking off of names in the ledger.

  Daniel walked down the line, nodding at the men he knew, smiling hopefully at the women, watching horses lope across the rolling plains, bringing in more Indians, many of them shouting, full of joy because of this day. Near the end of the line, he spotted a hardened face, which caused him to stop.

  “I did not expect to find Teepee That Stands Alone here,” Daniel said.

  The Kwahadi puhakat slowly turned and stared. He said nothing.

  “I wish to speak to you,” Daniel said. “It was my plan to ride to the Wichita Mountains to visit you.”

  “You would be welcome,” he said without enthusiasm.

  Daniel fought for the words. “First, I have news that will sadden your heart.” He pointed at the row of trees the soldiers had planted years ago to block the wind. “Come with me.” The old man did not budge. “I will save your place in this line.” He tapped the tin shield. “This gives me the power to do so.”

  Straightening, Teepee That Stands Alone protested. “I do not come for the gifts of the taibo. I take no gifts from such a wretched animal. I come to watch my people shame themselves.”

  A younger man, standing in front of the puhakat, turned. “Old man, you shut your mouth. You have no power. You have no pride.”

  “Watch your tongue!” Teepee That Stands Alone snapped.

  “You pretend to be some powerful holy man, but you are nothing. You watch what you say, old man, or you will feel my bow across your back.”

  Daniel moved between the two. “There will be no fighting in this line,” he said, directing the words at the younger man he did not know. “You fight, and I will arrest you. You will get no rations this month or next.”

  The Comanche spit between Daniel’s moccasins. “Metal Shirt,” he said in disgust.

  “Come,” Teepee That Stands Alone barked. “I have seen enough here.” He headed for the trees, and Daniel glared at the young man before following the puhakat.

  * * * * *

  “What is it you wish from me?” Teepee That Stands Alone said when they reached the trees. The wind picked up again, driving a harder rain at an angry angle. Daniel was grateful for these small trees and their leaf-heavy branches.

  “First, I must tell you something that will sadden your heart. It is news I learned. It is news of your son.”

  “I have no son.” The words slammed like a door.

  Daniel searched the old man’s hate-filled eyes, but saw nothing beyond that hate.

  “Toyarocho is dead,” he said, and still saw nothing in the eyes.

  “I have no son. The name means nothing to me.”

  “Should I tell your wife? Should I tell his widow?”

  “Tell anyone,” Teepee That Stands Alone said. “Perhaps they will mourn. I mourn no more.”

  “He died in the jail in Wichita Falls.”

  Teepee That Stands Alone shook his head in anger. “Is this all that you have to tell me? I have no time for this. I go now.” He was going, too, until Daniel called for him to wait.

  The old man walked back under the trees.

  “I need the help of you, Teepee That Stands Alone. I need help explaining a special dream. A . . . a . . . vision.”

  The dark eyes brightened. “You?” He almost laughed. “You had a vision?”

  “Will you help me learn what this dream means?”

  “That is what a puhakat does. Tell me about this dream.”

  Daniel looked at the ration line. Looked to be going smoothly. Beyond that, Ben Buffalo Bone and Twice Bent Nose had everything under control in the corral. Agent Ellenbogen’s head was buried in his ledger.

  “I am following a hawk,” Daniel began, trying to remember.

  �
�What kind of hawk?” the puhakat interrupted.

  “A marsh hawk.”

  Teepee That Stands Alone nodded. “That is good. The marsh hawk is your puha. Your father gave you his power when he took the name of the marsh hawk. He got his power from the marsh hawk. This, I remember.”

  “Yes,” Daniel said.

  “Go on.”

  “Before that,” Daniel said, recalling something else from the dream, wishing he had that Echo notebook with him. “There was a voice. The voice of the woman from Texas, the woman you talked to. The writer of stories.”

  “I remember her.”

  “She asks me in the dream if I believe in visions.”

  “Do you?”

  That stopped Daniel. “Maybe. That is why I come to you. Tséeyñ is there.”

  “The Kiowa?”

  “Yes. He is singing his death song.”

  “The song of the Ko-eet-senko.” The holy man nodded.

  “Yes. I ask him why he sings this song, but he becomes Coyote Chaser.”

  Teepee That Stands Alone suddenly frowned.

  “I ask him why he is there,” Daniel continued, “and he says it is the way. He says he must die alone.” Daniel tried to shake off the chill brought on by the wind and rain, or, at least, he blamed it on the weather. “And now, Coyote Chaser has been thrown away.”

  “It is the way of The People. It has always been the way.”

  “Yes. Coyote Chaser is in the agent’s office. He is dying.”

  “Perhaps that is your vision. Perhaps the marsh hawk was showing you the future. You should trust the marsh hawk. You should believe what your puha tells you.”

  “There is more.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I hear your voice. You are saying . . . ‘You are no better than Maman-ti.’ You are saying . . . ‘You are lower than Maman-ti.’”

  The eyes of Teepee That Stands Alone turned darker, a bottomless pit.

  “Words. They mean nothing.”

  “It is your voice,” Daniel explained, “but the words are spoken by the marsh hawk.” He threw the holy man’s words at him. “I should believe what my puha tells me, is it not so?” And then said, for his own heart: “I should believe what my father tells me.”

  “Words,” was all Teepee That Stands Alone said.

  “You said those words before,” Daniel said. “I remembered them after my vision. You said them in Fort Worth. You spoke them to Coyote Chaser. Who is Maman-ti?”

  “Perhaps you should ask Coyote Chaser,” Teepee That Stands Alone said.

  “His puha is not as strong as yours.”

  “That is so.” Softer, sadder he added: “Once so.”

  The dam broke, and the raindrops fell in hard, painful blasts, driven by a furious wind.

  “I do not talk in the rain,” Teepee That Stands Alone said, the potency returning to his voice. “You come to my lodge in the holy mountains. You come and we shall smoke the pipe. We shall find the meaning of your vision. In three suns, you come.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Who is Maman-ti?” Daniel asked. “I know he’s Kiowa.”

  “Was Kiowa,” Frank Striker replied before biting off a mouthful from a twist of tobacco. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead.” Daniel let out the word in a sigh. Chasing a ghost. Chasing a dream. He shook his head, disappointed in the answer, but mainly in himself. He should be out chasing evidence, not a vision—if it had been a vision—catching up with Brink Brinkerhoff to find out what his message about Dakota meant, or doing something that might get results.

  Instead, he found himself sitting in the shade outside the agency headquarters, talking to the interpreter, every now and then glancing through the open doorway to check on Coyote Chaser. Leviticus Ellenbogen had ridden to the fort with his assistant, leaving Daniel and Frank Striker in charge of the agency until they returned after dinner. The sun was hot, the sky a pale blue, cloudless. Daniel flipped to a new page in the Echo tablet and wrote.

  “When did he die?” he asked.

  “Oh, hell, I don’t know for certain. Better than a decade ago. Why don’t you ask some Kiowa?”

  “You married one.”

  After a chuckle, Striker drenched a scorpion with tobacco juice, wiped his mouth with a dirty shirt sleeve, and said: “Yeah, that I did. Well, let me cogitate on it.” He chewed and thought, thought and spit, finally nodded. “It was Eighteen and Seventy-Five. That’s the year. You were here then, but just a kid. Likely don’t remember much of what was going on then, probably scared to death like most Comanch’ kids and women was. Like a bunch of Comanch’ and Kiowa men was. Couldn’t blame ’em. Yep, it was after Quanah give up the fight, come limpin’ in to give up to Mackenzie. Before they shipped you off down the white man’s road. Summer of Eighteen Seventy-Five. Yes, Dan’l, that was the year, but, if you need month and date, I can’t help you there. What you interested in a Kiowa dohate for?”

  Daniel shrugged. He wasn’t about to explain a vision to the agency interpreter, but the word dohate interested him. He knew only a few Kiowa words—the language might be the hardest of all the Plains tribes to grasp, even for a Comanche—but dohate was one word he knew. Puhakat, The People would say. Holy man.

  “Maman-ti,” Striker went on. “It means Walks In The Sky, or that’s how I say it. Sky Walker, Man On A Cloud, you know the Kiowa tongue can be a holy handful. Anyway, he was a lot like your old Teepee That Stands Alone. Mean as a rattler that just got stepped on. Ornery sumbitch. Didn’t want no peace with us white men. They say he was one of the leaders of the raid in Jack County, Texas, back in ’Seventy, ’Seventy-One thereabouts. The raid that got Satanta sent to prison the first time. They say Maman-ti led or preached in a lot of raids. Mean, he was.”

  He spit again, shifted the tobacco, and continued. “But Kickin’ Bird was a big peace chief, and more and more Kiowas started seein’ things his way, and not Maman-ti’s. That riled him some. So when the Kiowas surrendered in ’Seventy-Five, a few months before you Kwahadis give up, Mackenzie makes Kickin’ Bird pick the boys they’re gonna lock up in Florida. You know how that was.”

  Daniel felt like spitting. Yes, he knew. The People had been forced to send many of their own brave warriors to Florida. Daniel’s father had been one of those, and he had never returned.

  “Kickin’ Bird chose Maman-ti.” The interpreter chuckled. “No surprise there. Not no differenter than some white politician would do. Yes, sir, you ask Grover Cleveland to pick who he’s sendin’ to prison, I bet he’d name some Republican. Might be your Agent Ellenbogen right about now after that ruction you and that Dallas newspaper lady stirred up.” Another spit. “Where the hell was I, Dan’l?”

  “Kicking Bird sent Maman-ti to Fort Marion.”

  “Right. Well, Maman-ti’s off to prison, so he puts a hex on Kickin’ Bird. That’s the story, anyhow. Big Kiowa dohate casts a spell on Kiowa peace chief. And Kickin’ Bird up and dies. That’s one story, anyway. Or somebody . . . and maybe Maman-ti was behind it . . . poisoned Kicking Bird. That’s a likely possibility, too. Or maybe, as my wife sees it, Kicking Bird just worried hisself to death.”

  “And Maman-ti?” Daniel asked.

  “Well, a Kiowa can’t go around killin’ no other Kiowa. Bad medicine. Maman-ti knowed that, and he said that hex he put on Kickin’ Bird would kill him, too. Justice, I guess. If you believe that story. So when the Kiowas arrive at Saint Augustine, Maman-ti gets sicker than a dog. The doctors wrote it up as dysentery. Maman-ti says he’s done for, shakes hands with some other prisoners, and sometime that summer he’s deader’n dirt.” He punctuated his story with another stream of tobacco juice.

  Daniel considered this, shook his head, and asked: “Where’s Maman-ti buried?”

  “Fort Marion, I warrant.”

  Daniel looked at what he had just written, and asked: “What does he have to do with all this?”

  “Huh?”

  Daniel looked up. “I’m just thinking. Sorry.” He scratch
ed his head, looked inside the agency. The thin sheets covering Coyote Chaser’s chest rose and fell unevenly, but the old man was still alive. Another thought came to him. “How about Kicking Bird?” Daniel asked. “Where’s he buried? Do you know?”

  “Sure. Chief’s Knoll. You can’t miss his grave. I guaran-damn-tee you Maman-ti didn’t get no tomb as fancy as Kickin’ Bird got.”

  * * * * *

  It was the stone building from his vision.

  The Army had buried a number of Indian leaders—those that fought for peace, as well as those that died for their freedom—at the post cemetery at Fort Sill. Chief’s Knoll. Satank, the great Kiowa leader of the Ko-eet-senko Society, was here. So was Ten Bears, the humble peace chief of The People. Below the small rise rose wildflowers from his dream, weathered wooden crosses and marble monuments marking the burial places of many soldiers. Frank Striker had been right. Kicking Bird’s tomb was fancier than any grave at Fort Sill, even the graves of white officers and buffalo soldiers.

  Yet the dream, the vision, meant nothing to Daniel. He flipped back in this pencil tablet, rereading his notes. He stared at the iron door, bracing himself, fearing that the dead Seven Beavers would somehow come out as he had in the dream, that the wind would blow the door open and he would see that terrible, worm-eaten face. Yet the air was still, heavy, and the door remained locked.

  Nothing.

  He could not find the meaning of his dream, not without help from Teepee That Stands Alone. Shaking his head, he turned, and walked down the crooked rows of graves, stopping, thinking he had heard someone. He looked back at Kicking Bird’s tomb, eyes locked on the iron door, and he recalled the words of the marsh hawk.

  Remember Maman-ti.

  * * * * *

  The surrey in front of the agency cabin was like nothing he had seen in Indian Territory, nothing he had seen since Pennsylvania, wide-tracked with leather seats that shone brilliantly, covered with a sparkling canopy from which hung golden tassels.

  Daniel swung down from the saddle, and was leading the buckskin to the corral when Patty Mullen’s voice stopped him. As he turned, he saw her come from the agency, her smile radiant, followed by a thin, gray-bearded man in a fancy striped suit, and Leviticus Ellenbogen. Daniel ground-reined his horse, and moved toward them, stopping when a third man exited the headquarters.