The Holy Road dww-2

by Michael Blake

  On the morning of the fourth day, when the fog lifted a few hundred feet off the ground and sunlight was endeavoring to penetrate the gloom, the scouts were astonished to see the first riders in a long column starting out of the fort.

  Seconds later the distinct cracking of twigs caused the three Comanches to turn. Only a few yards behind them was a large buck. Flanks heaving, he stood nervously and, as he craned his neck for a furtive look behind, the report of a gun exploded in the stillness.

  A slug whistled through his antlers and, as the buck bounded away, another round was fired. The Comanche scouts could see white men, two of them, in civilian clothes, coming through the woods with rifles. And the white hunters could see them.

  Fortunately for the spies, they had gathered up their weapons and made ready to move as soon as they saw the column starting out from the fort, intending to shadow it for a day or two before hurrying home with news of its existence.

  But there was no time to shadow anything now. The hunters were already firing at them as Dances With Wolves, Smiles A Lot, and Blue Turtle leapt onto their ponies. They charged along the tree line until it ran out. No one was hit by the hunters, and if the soldiers saw them now, it couldn't be helped.

  On hearing gunfire in the nearby woods, the column halted. But Captain Bradley was not overly disturbed. Since his initial, disastrous encounter at the dry streambed he had clashed with Indians several times, and the results had been far different. He had vanquished several small groups of Comanche and Kiowa raiders, overrunning and killing half a dozen warriors. His naive, bungling commandant had been replaced by an astute field officer, and since winning his captain's bars he felt supremely confident. Late experience told him that if he took the necessary precautions, kept a clear head, and thought on his feet, the men he led now could keep a whole nation of Indians at bay.

  He had met General MacKenzie and held him in high regard. Mackenzie's obvious grit was something the captain wished to emulate, and he felt honored to be given the opportunity to play a vital role in the grand campaign to sweep the plains. As he sat squinting at the tree line for a sign of what might be causing the disturbance in the woods, Captain Bradley did so without a hint of trepidation.

  A tiny knot of riders burst into the open at the end of the trees. They galloped up a long incline toward the naked brow of a low hill several hundred yards distant, and the captain noted with satisfaction that his chief of scouts, a levelheaded former ranger named Cox, had already raised his field glass to follow the runaways.

  "Comanches?" Bradley asked casually.

  “Sure are, Captain," Cox replied, the glass still pressed against his eye. "Three of 'em. They seen us. . they're ridin' like hell.”

  "Good," the captain said cooly, "that's the whole idea.”

  The chief of scouts suddenly lowered his field glass, squinted at the three riders for an instant, then raised the glass again.

  "I'll be goddamned!"

  He abruptly passed the glass to Captain Bradley.

  "One of 'em looks like a white man. Take a look, Captain.”

  Bradley raised the glass in time to see the three Comanches crest the little knob of a hill. One of them — his hair was cropped and he was appreciably taller than the others — happened to glance back a moment before he disappeared behind the rise. At first sight he might have passed for Indian, but, seeing the structure of his face and the roundness of his eyes, the captain was inclined to agree.

  "Probably a deserter," Bradley theorized, handing the glass back.

  "I've heard there's a few white men with,em, but I never seen one before."

  "Me neither," the captain replied.

  "I wouldn't want to be in his hide when we catch him.” Cox chuckled.

  "No," the captain remarked, picking up his reins, “he won't have any skin to be in after the army gets him."

  Chapter XLVII

  As the delegation disembarked in the political heart of the white nation they found themselves at the center of a wild, unthinkable scene.

  Aboriginal visitors had been coming to Washington for many years, but such appearances were hardly routine, and the platform was overflowing with a gaggle of government functionaries and citizens eager for a look at the alien personifications of the "Indian problem."

  Having grown used to being objects of curiosity, the men who called themselves Cheyenne, Arapaho, Kiowa, and Comanche snaked through the mass of whites pressing around them with pronounced aplomb, their faces utterly impassive, speaking rarely and then only in low murmurs to one another. The whites fell silent when the free men passed, the drama of their appearance heightened by the light clink of jewelry and the gentle scrape of moccasins that filled the vacuum of sound.

  Exiting the station, they were greeted with a pageant-like spectacle that stretched the limits of their comprehension. A great hatted crowd waited below them, flanking both sides of a long, open patch of stone leading to a road filled with wagon traffic. Between the path and crowd, standing shoulder to shoulder, were two solid lines of blue-coated policemen. Like the throng they were charged with controlling, the police were gazing up, their expressionless eyes barely visible in-the brim shadows of their strange uniform hats.

  Everywhere the visitors looked there were white man houses, some reaching so high into the sky that they grazed the clouds. The sun still hovered in the heavy, smelly air but the earth was nowhere to be seen. All that was left of the natural world were columns of green scattered over the vista, trees growing in straight lines on either side of the white man's many roads.

  After receiving a brief explanation regarding the function of steps, the warriors started down. waiting at the bottom of the steps were several open wagons, all drawn by fine, sleek horses. They climbed into the carriages and set off through the streets, stopping traffic and turning heads, until they arrived at their place of residence, something the white men called a hotel.

  Here they were shown the room where white men filled their bellies and were casually informed that the white man had a machine that told him when to eat. It turned out that the device, which the white men mounted on walls, erected in streets, and even carried in their pockets, told them far more than when to eat. The machine told them when to wake and when to sleep. It dictated the moment at which one man could visit another, when he could perform duties, when he could relax.

  No one could understand the necessity of such a thing. Ten Bears put it most succinctly when he remarked to Kicking Bird, “How can a man be a man when he enslaves himself to a circle of glass and metal?”

  The visitors, who were housed in separate suites according to tribe, were indoctrinated in the uses of furniture, the function of water closets, the intricacies of beds, the opening and closing of windows, and the procedures for summoning hotel staff members.

  When the thing called a bathtub was demonstrated, the men from the plains were amazed to see a pond magically take form before their eyes. They were equally horrified, however, when the plug was pulled and the water drained away through a black, evil-looking hole bottom of the pond. Something down in the hole made disturbing sounds as it fed on the water. No one wanted to bathe on top of the creature, nor did anyone want it getting out, and for the duration of their stay, the tubs' drains were jammed with knife blades or stuffed with linen and regularly monitored for any sign of whatever dwelt inside.

  Because they were only two, Kicking Bird and Ten Bears were provided with a sumptuous but smaller suite at the rear of the hotel consisting of a sitting room, a bedroom, a water closet, and a bathroom. Leaving Ten Bears stretched out on one of the beds, Kicking Bird made a thorough and energetic inspection of all that the rooms contained. He was vibrating with excitement, not only for the many wonders at his fingertips but for the prospects for knowledge as well. His ability to communicate was increasing every time he spoke white words, and though he understood relatively little, he was pleased with his progress. He knew innately that having the words would increase his power in
negotiations when he returned to the reservation. Without knowing the words, the Comanche would be as dependent on the white man as the white man was on his clocks. Learning the language was the first and most essential tool to navigating the bizarre terrain of the white world and Kicking Bird embraced the study of it with zeal.

  As he drifted through the rooms, he was constantly intrigued by all that the white man had wrought-from the fixtures on the bathroom sink to the glass transoms that opened over the doors. Like the others, he feared the bathtub and was baffled by the concept of time, but, taken as a whole, he was deeply impressed by the accomplishments of white culture.

  He was tired of traveling but could not think of resting. A walk through the streets of Washington was to take place shortly and he was anxious for a closer look at the huge, strange town, so alive with human endeavor.

  Returning to the bedroom, he found Ten Bears lying faceup on the bed, in the same position he had left him. The old man had draped a forearm across his eyes. The other arm lay at his side, his hand delicately clutching the precious spectacles.

  The room was very still, and as Kicking Bird stared down at the still form of his mentor, he imagined for a moment that Ten Bears had passed out of this world. Without moving, the old man's lips suddenly parted and his voice sounded.

  "When are those people supposed to come?”

  "Soon," answered Kicking Bird. “Will you go with us?”

  "No." Ten Bears took the arm away from his face and sat up. “I'm going to rest. My body is still swaying like that crazy thing we rode out here."

  “Train,” Kicking Bird said in English.

  "Tren," Ten Bears repeated. Then he lay back down. “I'm going to sleep."

  "All right, Grandfather.”

  Kicking Bird moved closer to the bed.

  "Do you want to be covered?” Kicking Bird asked attentively.

  "Yes, that would be good.”

  Kicking Bird unfolded the blanket near the foot of the bed and spread it gently over the old man.

  "Sleep well, Grandfather.”

  Ten Bears didn't answer. He was already floating in twilight and didn't know if the voice of Kicking Bird was real or part of a dream. He was turning into something. . a great bird. . maybe a hawk or an eagle, and he soared and dipped and climbed in the heavens as it scanned the world below. It was the white world, for he could clearly see houses and trains and dark networks of roads running in every direction.

  He dove closer to the ground and flew at tremendous speed toward the artificial landscape of a large city. For a time he flew over streets choked with white people. suddenly, he arched into a graceful ascent and when he glanced again at the streets he saw immediately that the white people had turned into insects, bustling up and down their avenues in a disciplined frenzy.

  Rising higher, the city below transformed itself into a red anthill. The barren landscape around the hill was steadily expanding away from the nest as its residents harvested everything in sight. No matter how high he flew, the insect metropolis stayed in view, enlarging perceptibly, as if it were pursuing him.

  A shaft of light struck him, and Ten Bears woke to find that a slanting ray of afternoon sun had crept across the bed. He yawned and stretched and sat up feeling fresh. The dream, which he remembered clearly, was disturbing, but all that flying must have been invigorating because he suddenly felt restless.

  I wish I could do some more of that flying, he thought, swinging his feet onto the floor and rising off the bed. Thirsty, he went to a dresser across the way and drank from a tall vessel standing next to a bowl. The white man water looked like water but didn't taste like anything.

  As he replaced the pitcher on the dresser top Ten Bears felt a shudder of panic. Inside the white man world, in this place called a hotel, it was as if life had ceased. Except for the irritating noise of the machine that told the whites what to do, there was no sound. Ten Bears made straight for the window, hoping he could remember how to make it open. He worked the latch free, pushed up with both hands, and took great draughts of odorous air into his lungs.

  He had closed his eyes as he sucked in air, and when he opened them again, he found himself staring down at a large rectangle of green bordered by a high fence. In the center of the green strip was a body of water.

  Ten Bears walked back across the room and pulled on a soft rope hanging next to a wall. How it could summon white men he did not know, but in minutes there was a knock at the door, and when Ten Bears opened it he found a white boy in tight-fitting clothes decorated with golden buttons standing in the hall.

  "Yes, sir?" he asked cheerfully.

  Ten Bears motioned him into the room, took the puzzled boy by the elbow, and guided him to the open window.

  "Ten Bears," he said in Comanche, pointing an index finger at his chest, before thrusting it at the green below the window.

  "What?" the boy inquired, not understanding.

  "Ten Bears. ." he began again, repeating the gesture. "Go,” the old man blurted, remembering the English word for moving. Once more he pointed out the window.

  Light washed over the boy's face. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "You want to go down to the garden."

  Ten Bears sat at the side of the pool for a long time. The water was green and tasted rotten and had plump, golden fish living in it. Noises from the city crept steadily over the fence and sometimes curious white people stared or tried to ask him questions but, all in all, the setting was superior to the suffocating boxes the white men seemed so excited about inhabiting.

  He still had some of the incredible little sticks whose red tips made fire when they were scratched in the proper way so he filled his pipe and smoked through the twilight as he revisited the dream of that afternoon.

  Ten Bears believed in the purpose of dreams and concluded that this one was instructing him to behave as an eagle in the days to come. He would fly above the many forthcoming talks and social activities they were scheduled to have with the white men. If he could watch these things from the heights a truer picture of white people might emerge. Being an eagle, Ten Bears decided, would be the best way to proceed.

  When the garden was saturated with shadow he heard familiar voices and turned to see his fellow warriors coming down the stairs at the rear of the hotel. They, too, preferred the garden and related various anecdotes of their walk around washington as they lounged beside the pool with Ten Bears. At last light, Lawrie Tatum and some other white men came out and told them the clock said it was time to take food.

  But no one was hungry and Kicking Bird asked instead if they could have fuel for a fire. Lawrie Tatum looked perplexed but told him to wait and returned a few minutes later to say that a fire would be all right, but only on the condition — and he emphasized this several times — that it be small.

  Several of the warriors retrieved the last of the food they carried with them, and the delegation sat around their tiny conflagration, staring fixedly into the flames as they passed the pipe and devoured the last of their jerked meat.

  Naturally, all thought drifted toward home, and the men wondered aloud about friends and relatives who had come into the reservation and how they might be faring on the white man's holy road.

  Since each man was a warrior, the talk eventually gravitated toward those who had stayed out to fight. These were their friends and relatives, and they speculated at length on the chances so many good fighters might have in battle with white soldiers. The more they talked about it the more convinced they became that the distinguished body of hostile warriors could not help but have success, and by the time some members of the delegation began to yawn, the idea that the buffalo might return was being discussed enthusiastically.

  Chapter XLVIII

  Six days after the deadline for the ultimatum passed, Captain Bradley's command was hit by a large, combined force of well-armed warriors.

  The attack came a few minutes before dawn, and though it had been repulsed, four troopers were dead and six were wounded. Seven o
f the enemy had been killed. The captain was certain that more Indians had died but he listed only the bodies that had been recovered.

  Enemy wounded weren't counted. A lesser officer would have been tempted to embellish his report, but Captain Bradley was a rare bird. He laid out only the plain facts of the engagement in the official report he scribbled to General Mackenzie barely an hour after the fighting had ceased.

  The night before, his command had bivouacked in a small valley nestled in rolling, mesquite-covered country. The site, which was spotted with growths of cottonwoods at its deepest point, had been chosen because a large spring of pure, clear water had been discovered there.

  He didn't mention it in his report, but Bradley had begun to feel restless as soon as they made camp. In the days before, they had encountered more and more Indian sign, much of it fresh. None of the hostiles had been sighted, but having led his column so deep into enemy territory the captain was on high alert.

  The wide ravine was, from a military point of view; neither the worst nor the best place he might have chosen to spend the night. His ambivalence about the spot left him vaguely queasy, and after dark he ordered the herders to move the horses and mules closer to camp. once this was accomplished he ordered that a half dozen more men be detailed to guard the livestock. Auxiliary fires were lit and tended through the night. Sentries were doubled, and instead of reporting once an hour, they were required to signify their presence to the sergeant of the guard every fifteen minutes.

  Despite these measures, Captain Bradley found himself unable to rest and spent the balance of the night in sporadic checks of the camp. He had just returned from an inspection of the guard when, according to best estimates, nearly half a hundred screaming savages charged out of the blackness and attacked the horse herd.

  Captain Bradley remained coolheaded through the ensuing ripple of chaos, giving strict and specific orders for the mounting of no more than twenty-five soldiers, who sped to aid the defenders of the precious herd. As firing echoed up the ravine, Bradley ordered the deployment of skirmish lines on either side of the bivouac and instructed the Gatling gun crew to set up their weapon in a position facing east.