Laughter.
Daniel looked at his lap, saw his thumbs twiddling. Tried to stop. Started again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, when it comes to Indian civilization, I am a Baptist.”
Fitting, Daniel thought. Just moments earlier, the minister from the First Baptist Church had given the invocation.
“I strongly believe in immersing the Indian in our civilization. Hold them under …” Here, Pratt raised both fists, then pretended to be holding a head under the water.
Daniel straightened, a memory from ages ago coming to the forefront. He could picture old Isa Nanaka, now traveling to The Land Beyond The Sun, holding a buffalo hunter’s head under the water of the river the Tejanos called the Pease, could see the man’s boots thrashing in the mud until Isa Nanaka had drowned the fool.
“… until they are soaked thoroughly.” School Father Pratt’s hands fell to his side. “This task would be impossible to do on the reservations of old. It could be done only at boarding schools. That is why I created the Industrial School in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. And rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that we did not teach these Indians to be … ahem … Yankees!”
More laughter. To the left of the lectern, Captain Lee Hall slapped his thigh, leaned over, and said something to Fort Worth’s mayor whose name Daniel had already forgotten.
“Good citizens of Texas, you know all too well the savagery of war, the butchery of barbarians. The rivers once flowed red through this country.”
Now Daniel recalled Isa Nanaka dragging the man’s lifeless body from the muddy water. Saw him unsheathing his knife. Remembered the warrior taking the taibo’s scalp.
“I served in the Army. I saw the carnage. I know what brave settlers went through. Indeed, I can understand the hatred you felt for Indians such as these that now share this stage with me. Wipe out the Indians, you once said. Nay, you demanded it. Send them the way of the buffalo.”
He paused, letting the words take hold.
“But is this the way of a Christian?” His head shook. “My way is better, ladies and gentlemen. It is as I have long championed. Kill the Indian, not the man.”
Applause built to a crescendo, echoed by a roar of approval. No one challenged Pratt. No heckles. That, Daniel found hard to comprehend. Most Tejanos he had met likely still wanted to kill both Indian and man, with relish. Especially Comanches.
“My good friends, my fellow citizens of Our Lord Jesus Christ, I want to introduce you to two prime examples of how Carlisle works. These two young gentlemen came to Pennsylvania as heathens, as raw, wild savages, but through dedication … on their part, indeed, as well as on the part of my excellent tutors … they have proved themselves as champions for the Comanche race. They are no longer savages, but are men among the best of their fields.”
Sand caked Daniel’s throat.
“Texas, allow me to introduce you to Charles Flint, a clerk and accountant for George McEveety’s trading post in Indian Territory.” Applause. “And Daniel Killstraight, the head police officer for the tribal police on the federal reserve near Fort Sill.”
Something grazed Daniel’s moccasin. He looked down at a shiny black shoe, followed the trail up the dark pants and coat until he stared up into Charles Flint’s coal eyes. He realized Flint was standing, no longer sitting, and although he couldn’t hear Flint’s words, he could read his lips, and that urgent expression on his face.
“Stand up!”
Daniel looked out into the crowd. He wondered if he could rise, and was surprised when he did not collapse and roll down the steps of the courthouse.
His prayer was answered. School Father Pratt did not ask either to make a speech. Still clapping his hands, his face beaming, Pratt nodded at the two, and Daniel dropped into his chair. Sweat poured down his face and neck. His heart pounded.
“Their education would not have been possible without the cooperation of tribal elders.” Pratt gestured behind him. “This is Yellow Bear. His savage heart has been tamed by the love, thanks to the gracious ladies of the Wednesday Woman’s Club …”—laughter—“for ice cream. And let me just say that ice cream tastes far better, and has better results, than bullets and powder.”
Daniel mopped his brow.
“And here is Nagwee.” He butchered the name, but no one seemed to notice. “Among the Comanches, he is a medicine man. He is wise beyond his years.
“On Nagwee’s left is another medicine man. This, folks, is not Isa-tai’s first trip to Texas. He led that fateful attack in the year of Our Lord 1874 at Adobe Walls. Only the keen eye and true shots of those stalwart white buffalo hunters prevented the Comanches from setting civilization back thirty or forty years. Isa-tai’s name means Coyote Droppings. Imagine, my friends, if your parent had named you Coyote Droppings.”
Laughter swept across Fort Worth. Someone on the platform stomped his boots and howled like a coyote. “Coyote Droppings! Don’t that beat all!”
Daniel shook his head at the pale-eyes translation. Isa-tai meant no such thing.
“Charles Flint over here came to Pennsylvania with a savage name, but he has followed the white man’s road. Isa-tai is also the father of Charles Flint. Look at father and son, my friends. Cannot you see how much the Carlisle Industrial School has, can, and will accomplish!”
The roar sounded deafening. Charles Flint muttered a pale-eyes oath. Daniel fought the urge to look at Isa-tai.
When the noise at last subsided, Pratt stopped to mop his forehead with a handkerchief. “Lastly, this tall man sitting behind me is a warrior and leader, a man of war, a man of peace. He fought hard to keep his people free, but now works hard to hold peace. He is more respected, more honored, more cherished than Crazy Horse or Sitting Bull or Cochise or Osceola. He is a judge. He is the chief of the Comanches. He is the Abraham Lincoln and George Washington and Robert E. Lee of the Comanche people. And, as many of you know, he is a native Texian.”
Roars. Someone even fired a pistol shot into the air. A horse whinnied, and cymbals clashed. The band’s trumpeter sounded the charge. More laughter.
Pratt even snickered. He wiped his face again, then slid the handkerchief into his vest pocket. “His mother was the dearly departed Cynthia Ann Parker, taken captive by the Comanches from Parker’s Fort ’way back during the dark days of Texas in 1836. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … Quanah Parker.”
Daniel found himself clapping, watching Quanah rise, bowing, moving uncomfortably as School Father Pratt beckoned him to the lectern. Everyone was clapping. Everyone, that is, except Isa-tai.
Gradually the crowd hushed.
A camera flashed, belching smoke and bad smells. Reporters scribbled on their note pads, which reminded Daniel that he probably should buy some Old Glory writing tablets, a Columbus lead sharpener, and two or three packs of Faber’s No. 2 pencils. Ever superstitious, Daniel practically refused to use anything but those brands for his police work, and they were hard to find on the reservation. Even McEveety didn’t carry those. In fact, the trading post stocked few writing utensils.
“Ladies, gentlemen.” Quanah’s soft voice carried over the crowd. “Me once bad man. Now me citizen of United States. Me work for Comanche. Me work for you. Good friends here. Captain Pratt. Captain Hall. This used to be hunting ground for Comanche. Many rattlesnakes here.”
“Still are!” someone shouted from Main Street.
“Hush up, Horace!” countered a feminine voice.
“I see many faces here. Good faces. White faces. I work for my people. Government say … ‘Put Indians in school. Make Indians do like white man.’ This I do. Me proud. Tet- uh, Flint … Charles Flint. Daniel Killstraight. Make proud. Make you proud. They good. But some Indians no good.”
Daniel found enough nerve to shoot a quick glance at Isa-tai, but the large Kwahadi seemed to be asleep in his chair.
“But me say some white man no good. Bring whiskey. Get Comanche drunk. Steal souls of men. Women, too. Others bring cattle. But pay not. This wrong. This, Ki
llstraight, he try stop. Good lawman. I come here to talk with friend Captain Hall. Come see friend Waggoner. Friend Burnett. Good to see many faces. See friends. I miss my mother. She good woman. Good mother. She white woman. I go now.”
As he turned, Daniel saw Quanah wipe a tear before it rolled down his cheek. Daniel thought of his own mother.
Chapter Five
Like red ants, reporters swarmed. Most of them came from Fort Worth and Dallas publications, but Daniel heard a bald man mention Austin and a man with Dundreary whiskers say San Antonio. A tall gentleman in a silk hat and peculiar accent said he hailed from London, and Daniel also heard names like Frank Leslie’s Illustrated, Scribner’s Monthly, Harper’s Weekly, and National Police Gazette, the last of which Daniel had not only heard of, he had even read a few issues. A woman, her hair neatly in a bun, stood sketching page after page. Photographers scurried about, setting up their huge boxes on tripods. One man with a sweaty hand pulled Charles Flint from his chair, urging him to pose for a photograph with his father. “Good Injun and bad,” the photographer said through a nasal twang. “It’ll sell like Bohemian suds.”
Daniel stepped aside as the photographer pulled a laughing Charles Flint toward Isa-tai.
“Come on, old-timer,” another photographer called, trying to coax Yellow Bear from his chair. “It won’t take but a moment for me to capture your likeness. Your grandchildren will love it, yes, sir, indeed they will.”
Yellow Bear jerked his arm from the photographer’s grasp, and barked in his native tongue.
The photographer straightened, turned, searching for help, and found Daniel.
“Hey, boy. Can you talk this old chief into posing for a photograph?”
“He says he will not let you steal his shadow,” Daniel said, translating Yellow Bear’s words.
“Huh?”
Then the photographer saw Quanah, surrounded by reporters, and quickly grabbed his camera and tripod.
Daniel filled his lungs with hot air, and slowly exhaled. A few newspapermen left Quanah, and hurried to join the throng that surrounded Isa-tai. Charles Flint sat in a chair, his photograph already taken, conversing with a reporter who furiously scribbled with his pencil, while the lady artist knelt, working her pens to capture Charles Flint’s likeness. A moment later, a reporter tugged on Flint’s coat sleeve, urging him to translate what his father was saying. A woman brought Yellow Bear some ice cream, and the puhakat smiled a toothless grin, and took the cone greedily. Other artists and photographers knelt beside Nagwee.
Nobody would be leaving for a spell, so Daniel sat in the chair Flint had abandoned. He picked up one of the paper fans the ladies from the Wednesday Woman’s Club had handed out to their guests. There was a quote from Proverbs stenciled on the yellow paper, but Daniel was too tired, too hot to read. He waved the fan in front of his face, closed his eyes.
“Hello, Daniel. We have not had much of an opportunity to talk. It’s been rather a whirlwind since you arrived.”
Eyes opened, fan lowered, Daniel started to rise, but School Father Pratt raised a hand to stop him, and settled into the nearest chair.
Daniel tried to think of words. “I thought … you would … newspapermen … why don’t they talk to you?”
“They’ve talked to me for ages.” Checking his pocket watch, he added, “Though I have an interview with Mister Etheridge at the Standard in a little more than an hour.” Pratt smiled, took the fan Daniel had dropped, and waved it so that it would send warm air toward him and Daniel both. “These are the celebrities. Quanah. Isa-tai. You should go up there, make yourself known.”
Daniel’s head shook strongly.
“I’m surprised they haven’t circled around you like vultures. Maybe I should not have said all that about Isa-tai. No, there’s no maybe. That was stupid of me. Those ink-spillers can’t get enough of that old tyrant.” He lowered the fan, let it fall, and pointed. “Look at him, Daniel.”
Daniel glanced, shrugged, turned back to his former educator.
With a smile, Pratt turned in his chair, reached over, and tapped the shield pinned on Daniel’s vest. “You’ve done well, Daniel. But, of course, I knew you would. You’re a good peace officer from all that I hear.”
No, Daniel thought. He remembered something Hugh Gunter had once said. They were camping in the Nations, one, no, two years ago, bringing the body of Jimmy Comes Last from Fort Smith to the reservation. Having breakfast, or maybe it had been supper. Daniel couldn’t remember exactly, but he knew they had been sitting around a fire, and the Cherokee had been sipping coffee. Daniel had asked if Gunter liked being a policeman. “Sometimes,” Gunter had answered, before motioning toward the coffin in the wagon. “Not always.” And moments later, “I am good at it.”
Daniel wasn’t good at it. Oh, sure, he had been promoted to sergeant of the Tribal Police, but that was because he could speak English and Comanche, and understood a little bit of Kiowa. What he couldn’t speak, he could usually sign with his hands. He was no detective, and not much of a peace officer. The law? What did he understand of white man’s law? People—red and white—said he had solved crimes, had stopped whiskey-running operations, had sent murderers and thieves to prison, but Daniel knew better. He had bungled his way through any investigation. Good at it? Not hardly.
“I knew you were a leader when you first arrived at Carlisle.” Laughing, Pratt shook his head. “You were quite the rebellious little red devil. Our School Mothers must have cracked three score rulers on your knuckles. Yet, eventually, you saw the light, realized that the Comanche … and all other Indian tribes … must learn to adapt to the white man’s ways. It is the only way for you people to survive. We must stop the butchery, the violence.” He was sounding like the speechmaker again. Daniel bit his bottom lip. “You are the one to lead the Comanches to a better way of life, a better living. You and Quanah.”
He could feel the School Father’s eyes boring into him, knew Pratt wanted a verbal response. Daniel tilted his head toward Isa-tai. “He is a leader,” he said. “Not me.”
“Do you know what a chameleon is, Daniel?”
“No. That is a word I do not know.” One of many, he thought but did not say.
“It’s … never mind. Suffice to say that Isa-tai is not the right leader,” Pratt answered immediately. “He proved that at Adobe Walls.”
On that, Daniel had to agree.
Memories, clear as spring run-off in the Wichita Mountains, came flooding before his face: Isa-tai claiming his puha, telling The People he could heal the sick, he could even raise the dead. Saying that no bullets would hurt him. None of this was new. Though just a young boy, Daniel had heard other prophets. False prophets, the old puhakats would say. Yet many of The People claimed to have seen Isa-tai travel to The Land Beyond The Sun, remaining there all night, then coming down from the sky on the following morning. Others had seen him belch out cases and cases of cartridges. Once, a comet had appeared in the night sky, and Isa-tai had told The People that the light would disappear in five days. Daniel had heard that prediction himself. Daniel himself had seen the comet. And five days later, as Isa-tai had concluded, the white light in the night sky had vanished, never to return.
The Kwahadis believed him. So did Daniel, for he was a child. The Cheyennes came to hear his words, as did the Kiowas and Arapahos. Isa-tai came to Quanah, asked him to help him destroy the taibos who were waging their war against the buffalo, which The People needed desperately. It would be a revenge raid. Quanah would avenge the death of his uncle, killed by the Pale Eyes. First, they would hold a Sun Dance, and The People had never held a Sun Dance.
They would attack the killers of the buffalo at their camp at the place called Adobe Walls. Bad medicine, Yellow Bear had warned. Years ago, The People had attacked a pale-eyes force led by the great white scout Kit Carson near those same grounds, and death songs were sung, and women, children, and men left mourning. Isa-tai had not listened. Nor had Quanah. Thus, they had attacked Adobe Walls.
Again, death songs were sung, and women, children, and men left mourning. The Pale Eyes had far-shooting guns. Guns that would shoot today and kill tomorrow. One bullet fired from the taibo camp had struck and killed a warrior more than a mile away. Infuriated, a Cheyenne had lashed at Isa-tai with his quirt, but Isa-tai had blamed the Cheyennes for the defeat. One had killed a skunk before the battle, Isa-tai had claimed. It had ruined his puha.
“I hear,” School Father Pratt said, “that Isa-tai wasn’t known as Isa-tai back then. The Comanches gave him that name only after the battle. It means Coyote Droppings. Right?”
Daniel smiled. “No. He has always been known as Isa-tai. At least, as long as I can remember. And it does not mean Coyote Droppings, or Rear End Of A Wolf, or anything like that.”
“What does it mean?”
Daniel tightened his lips. He could not tell School Father that in the language of The People Isa-tai meant Coyote Vagina.
“Pa-cha-na-quar-hip did not mean Buffalo Hump.”
Daniel looked up, wondering how long Charles Flint had been standing there. “But that’s how you white men always translate it?”
“Is that so?” Pratt stood up and shook Flint’s hand. “And what was Buffalo Hump’s real name?”
Flint grinned, and when he answered, “Erection That Won’t Go Down,” Pratt guffawed.
“Well, I can understand why that name got changed.” Pratt’s eyes beamed. “Lord have mercy, can you imagine how the Wednesday’s Woman’s Club would have reacted?” He slapped his knee, leaving Daniel wondering how the School Mothers would have behaved if they could see School Father Pratt’s amusement over such a profane joke.
Yet the name was no joke, and Daniel could not hide his frown, his disappointment in Charles Flint. Oh, it wasn’t like the true name of Buffalo Hump, a legendary leader of the Penateka band who had been dead for years, among The People had been some secret. Still, Flint had disappointed Daniel. Like his father, the bookkeeper seemed to have forgotten the ways of Nermernuh. He did not remember, or maybe care, that for any of The People to speak the name of someone who had journeyed to The Land Beyond The Sun showed much disrespect.
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