Kill the Indian

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “It will be done, bávi.”

  Daniel ran his tongue across his lips. “Watch Quanah. Make sure he is not left alone with Isa-tai.”

  Ben Buffalo Bone frowned. “Isa-tai … do you think … ?”

  He silenced his friend by holding up his hand. “I am not sure of anything. That is why I go with this taibo. Just keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Bávi, it will be done.” Ben Buffalo Bone nodded.

  He left Ben Buffalo Bone—saying “Pbah vee.” Take care.—and followed Billy Kyne down the hall. They met Charles Flint on the stairs outside, and Daniel stopped.

  “How did it go?”

  Flint’s eyes were glassy, but he nodded. “Well … I guess.”

  Daniel gave him a thankful nod, took a few steps down, and stopped. “Will you do me one other favor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Watch over Rain Shower. This place can be unpleasant.”

  “It will be done,” Flint said, and Daniel joined Billy Kyne, who was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

  * * * * *

  The beer-jerker at Tivoli Hall wiped down the edge of the bar with a damp towel, and started to answer Kyne’s question, but a shout from the other end commanded his attention. He moved down the bar, drawing a foamy beer from a tap, and slid a pewter stein down to a waiting customer. Seconds later, he stood in front of Daniel and Kyne.

  It was not much after 1:00 p.m., and Herman Kussatz’s saloon was crowded with men in suits, farmers in denim, cowhands wearing big hats. Various languages rang out, most of which Daniel recognized from his mining days as German. He could understand the saloon’s popularity. Kussatz offered a free lunch all day long, and it was dinnertime. Even Kyne had ordered a draft beer and was spreading something yellow on the thick slice of bread he was about to use to cover a chunk of ham.

  “Vednesday night?” The barkeep snorted. “Ja, I vork dat night. You expect me to remember Vednesday? Nein.”

  Daniel had known this would be a long shot.

  The bartender pointed down the bar at a big box labeled Gurley’s Patented Refrigerator. “Kussatz buy that. Keeps beer colder than ice, vill hold one hundred fifty kegs. Place is very busy. Nein, nein, I don’t know the cowboy.”

  Kyne bit into the sandwich, chewed, and chased it down with a long pull from his stein, while the bartender went back to draw three more beers and pour a shot of bourbon.

  “The Hun’s right,” Kyne said with a mouthful of beer and sandwich. “I wouldn’t let that miser I work for in Dallas know my true feelings, but this beer hall is finer than anything in Dallas, that’s for certain. Ranchers, mayors, newspapermen, cowboys, cattle buyers. Everybody drinks here. Probably the best dram shop in all of Texas.”

  When the German returned, the bartender asked, “Vot does the cowboy look like?”

  “He wore spurs,” Daniel answered.

  The beer-jerker laughed, and Kyne joined him. “Most do in this city,” Kyne said. “You need more of a description than that.”

  Daniel tried to remember. He could not remember anything about the man’s face, wasn’t even sure he had seen the face. The hat the cowboy had worn was indistinguishable. Even the spurs sounded as did most he had heard in Fort Worth, Dallas, Wichita Falls, Fort Smith, and on the reservation pastures.

  Kyne drained his beer, and addressed the German. “He’s segundo for Sol Carmody. You know Carmody, don’t you?”

  The bartender tossed the rag into a tin pail behind the bar. “Ja. Most do.”

  Kyne pushed the empty stein toward the German, who scooped it into a huge hand, and moved back to the line of taps. When he returned and set the beer in front of the newspaperman, Kyne said, “All we want is the segundo’s name?”

  “Nein. I don’t know the cowboy.” He took the empty plate, and moved back down the bar.

  After sipping his second beer, Kyne looked at Daniel and shrugged. “Well, it was a long shot, Killstraight. But if that copper was right, and it was Carmody’s ramrod, I should be able to find his name directly. Or you and I could ride out north to the Elm Fork, pay a visit to Sol. I take it you want to question this fellow yourself?”

  Daniel stared at his full glass of water and the bowl of beans he had not touched. Deep in thought, he did not answer Kyne, who finished his beer, and fished out three coins, which he slapped on the bar. “Come on, Killstraight. I need to get to the depot and hop a train back to Dallas.”

  The bartender was back, staring at Daniel’s bowl, swiping the coins into the deep pocket of his apron. When he turned to leave, Daniel spoke. “Herr Bartender.” He remembered the miners calling the beer-jerkers that back in Pennsylvania. When the big German looked at him, Daniel asked, “Was Sol Carmody here on Wednesday night?”

  “Ja.” He nodded, and hooked a thumb toward a table facing the Houston Street window. “Sit there. Vit your Injun.”

  Kyne’s shoe slipped on the brass rail. He bumped into the well-dressed man standing next to him, excused himself, and pulled the pencil from his ear. “Carmody was drinking with Yellow Bear?”

  “Ja.” The bartender nodded. “Ja. Now I remember. The cowboy. He sit vit them, too. Vear spurs, ja. Dark hair. Mustache. But his name?” He shrugged apologetically. “Nein.”

  Daniel and Kyne exchanged a quick glance, then Daniel asked, “How many were sitting at that table?”

  “Injun chief vit feathers. Carmody.” He held up two fingers. “Zwei cowboys.” Another shrug. “Others come, go, sit, talk.”

  The bartender went back, this time carrying Daniel’s untouched bowl of beans.

  Daniel thumbed back three or four pages of his Old Glory tablet. He found the name. “George Briggs,” he said.

  “Right.” Kyne scratched something on a blank page. “Foreman for Dan Waggoner.”

  “I thought Waggoner and Carmody did not like each other,” Daniel said.

  Kyne wrote something else. “That’s an understatement, Killstraight. Nobody in the Northern Texas Stock Growers’ Association cares for Sol Carmody, and he hates everybody.”

  Daniel chewed on the end of his Faber’s pencil for a moment, then removed the pencil. “But could Briggs and Carmody … could they be friends?”

  “‘Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,’ Shakespeare wrote in The Tempest. Or as Charles Dudley Warner, who gave me my first newspaper job at the Hartford Courant, put it … ‘politics makes strange bedfellows.’ And to quote William J. Kyne … ‘Cold draft beer and a free lunch can absolutely make the bitterest of enemies temporary pals.’”

  The beer-jerker was back, bringing a plate of smelly beef and a tumbler of whiskey to the gent standing beside Kyne, and placing a stein of beer into the hand of a tall, blond man.

  “On the other hand,” Kyne continued, “Briggs might hoist some beers with Sol Carmody’s ramrod, but share a table with Carmody himself? Not a chance in hell, Killstraight. Not if he wanted to keep his job riding for Dan Waggoner.”

  “Ja, ja. Vagner,” the German said. “He come, too. Sit for a few minutes.” He looked at Daniel and Kyne. “You finished?”

  Kyne stared at Daniel, who leaned on the bar and asked, “Dan Waggoner sat down with Sol Carmody?”

  “Ja. Not long. Five minutes maybe. Then he left.”

  “What time did everybody leave?”

  He shook his head. “Nein. I can’t say.”

  “Horse apples, you damned Hun!” Kyne straightened, tried to look bigger, but no matter how much he sucked in his stomach, he would not be a noon shadow to the bruising German. “You might not remember when those two cowhands left, or even Sol Carmody or Dan Waggoner, but a Comanche all decked out like Yellow Bear. You wouldn’t forget him. You’d be watching him on account you’re curious as everybody else, and you’d never seen a Comanche back on the Rhine or the Danube or wherever you come from. You know. Put that little brain to moil and give us an answer.”

  It was not the approach Daniel would have chosen, but it worked. The beer-jerker frowned, but a
nswered. “The chief left vit von cowboy at midnight.” Shrugging. “Near midnight. Before, after, I can’t say.”

  So George Briggs had been telling the truth.

  “Just Yellow Bear and Waggoner’s cowhand, George Briggs?” Kyne spoke with urgency. “Not them other two? Or Waggoner. Yellow Bear walked out with just one man?”

  “Don’t know the name of the cowboy, but ja, von left vit the chief. Vagner, he vas gone long time before.”

  “And Carmody,” Daniel asked, “and the other?”

  “Nein.” Another shake of his head. “I don’t remember.” Glaring at Kyne. “Dat is so.”

  Again, a customer called, and the barkeep moved down the bar.

  “That’s something,” Kyne said, gathering his tablet and pencils. “I don’t have a farthing what it means, but it must mean something.” They headed for the batwing doors. “I’ll find out that gent’s name. You want to ride out to Carmody’s ranch? I can rent a buggy. Take us all day to get there.”

  Daniel shook his head. There was no guarantee Carmody or his foreman would be at the ranch, and, besides, Kyne was right. Maybe they had something, but what?

  “And when I see Dan Waggoner, I’ll nail his hide to the barn. What’s he doing, meeting with Sol Carmody?”

  They pushed through the batwing doors, and Daniel ran straight into Ben Buffalo Bone.

  His Kotsoteka friend’s face looked troubled.

  “It is Quanah,” Ben said. “Come quick.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Large, hard drops of rain pelted them as they ran across the street and up the stairs. Daniel was soaked and cold by the time he reached Nagwee’s room. The door was open, the window now closed to keep out the dampness, and Rain Shower and Charles Flint knelt over Quanah.

  His heart sank as he entered the room, squeezing past Nagwee and Isa-tai. Cuhtz Bávi sat on the floor, tamping tobacco into a pipe bowl.

  Rain Shower looked up, smiling, and Quanah turned his head. His eyes focused, and he worked his lips before calling out in a weak voice, “Maruaweeka.”

  A grin exploded on Daniel’s face, and he sank onto the blanket and grabbed Quanah’s extended hand. “Hello yourself,” he said in English.

  Behind him, Billy Kyne’s voice thundered, “Damnation. No other reporters here? Excellent. Just excellent. Is he going to live?”

  Turning around, Nagwee spoke in his native tongue. “My puha is strong.” He was speaking, not to the Herald reporter but to Isa-tai, and he was smiling with satisfaction when he said it. Isa-tai’s face grew harder, his frown deeper, and he folded his arms across his chest, and turned away from Nagwee, staring at the wall.

  “What’s that mean?” Kyne wiped his notebook on his coat, which was dripping wet. “What did he say?”

  “He said his power is strong,” Daniel said.

  Quanah added, summoning strength from somewhere deep within, in English, “I will live.”

  Kyne wrote, tried harder, then gave up and flipped his notebook to another page. He tried again, before cursing and sending the pencil flying across the room, where it bounced off the wall and landed in Nagwee’s bed.

  “Wet pencil. Wet pages. Damn, I gotta get this in now.” Thunder drowned out Kyne’s farewell. Lightning flashed, more thunder rolled, and Billy Kyne was gone.

  “It is good to see you,” Quanah told Daniel.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. “My friend, it is great to see you.”

  Flint lifted Quanah’s head, and Rain Shower gave him water from a tumbler. Some dribbled down Quanah’s chin, but when the glass was empty, he said, “More.”

  Flint rose, and, as he poured from a pitcher, Quanah’s eyes wandered around the room.

  “Where is Yellow Bear?” he asked.

  * * * * *

  Charles Flint held up Quanah’s arm, letting Daniel wrap clean linen strips around the cuts the Kwahadi leader had carved down his forearm with Cuhtz Bávi’s knife. Personally Daniel had not thought this had been a good idea, weak as Quanah was, but Quanah had insisted, and Nagwee had grunted that it was good, that the one who had gone to The Land Beyond The Sun should be mourned by his daughter’s husband.

  “There.” Gently, Flint lowered Quanah’s arm.

  Releasing a heavy sigh, Quanah sadly shook his head. Tears streamed down his face, shaming Daniel as he remembered he had not properly mourned Yellow Bear.

  “It is hard to believe he is gone,” Quanah said. “I have lost too many wise men whose counsel I often needed.”

  Daniel bit his bottom lip. Isa Nanaka and now Yellow Bear had died. Teepee That Stands Alone was broken, shattered, living alone and hardly seeing anyone, south of Saddle Mountain. Others had fallen victim to the pale-eyes whiskey, no longer caring for The People, for their families, living for nothing except another drink. Other than Nagwee and Cuhtz Bávi, who was left? Isa-tai? The thought made Daniel shudder.

  “You are cold,” Quanah said. “Tetecae, close the window.”

  “I am all right,” Daniel said.

  “But something troubles you. Speak, He Whose Arrows Fly Straight Into The Hearts Of His Enemies.”

  Daniel glanced at Charles Flint, but, when his eyes met the bookkeeper’s, he quickly looked away.

  “Go ahead,” Flint said. “Ask him.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “You are weak,” Daniel said. “You should rest.”

  Quanah reached over, grabbed Daniel’s forearm, and squeezed tightly. “Ask me what?”

  Daniel swallowed. Lightning flashed, followed by a deafening roar of thunder. The rain, which had been falling off and on all afternoon, had turned into a downpour. He wondered about Isa-tai, Nagwee, Rain Shower, and the others. School Father Pratt and Captain Hall had come upstairs, paid Quanah their respects, then taken the others to a steakhouse to eat supper. How long had they been gone? Thirty minutes? An hour?

  “Speak, my friend. What is on your mind? What troubles you?”

  He looked into Quanah’s eyes. His lips moved as he tried to find the words.

  “What do you remember about the night?” It was Charles Flint who had spoken.

  “The night?” Quanah blinked.

  “The night you were almost called to The Land Beyond The Sun?” Flint explained.

  Quanah’s eyes closed, and his brow furrowed. “I went to sleep,” he said. “I was very tired for it had been a long day.” He motioned for a drink, and Daniel filled the tumbler and handed it to him as Flint helped raise his head.

  “I have a vague memory of falling onto the floor. My head was spinning. My lungs did not wish to work. I pulled myself toward the light.”

  “The light?” Daniel asked.

  “Haa, the light. It marked the door.”

  Light … shining through the crack between the door and the floor. Which meant the lamps were off in their room. Well, Daniel had known that already.

  “Yellow Bear had kicked you out of bed,” Flint said, and Daniel saw Quanah cringe. Flint had done it again, dishonoring the dead by speaking their names. “He saved your life, undoubtedly.”

  “He who is traveling to The Land Beyond The Sun saved my life more than once.”

  No one spoke for a long while. Rain pounded the windowpanes. The breeze felt almost cold.

  “That is not all you wish to know,” Quanah said.

  Daniel ran his fingers through his hair, nodding. “The kupl-ta.” He pointed to the lamp, turned off, on the wall over Nagwee’s bed, then decided to explain. “Did you turn it off?”

  “Haa.” His head bobbed. “After I came in and prepared myself to sleep.”

  Flint cleared his throat. “Blow it out, or turn it down?”

  Quanah’s answer made Daniel’s heartbeat increase. “Turn it down. The kupl-ta was gas. This, Captain Hall explained to me.”

  “This was explained to you,” Flint said, “and what of …”—this time he remembered—“the one who is no more?”

  “I told him.” His eyes narrowed, and he looked first at Fli
nt, then at Daniel. “What are you trying to say?”

  Daniel pointed to the window, where rain dribbled on the sill and splattered against the glass. “Did you open the window when you came back from our supper?”

  Quanah’s head shook. “No.”

  Daniel frowned, and Flint shook his head.

  “I had no need to open it, for it was already open. You two young Kwahadis have short memories. It was not always so cool. It was stifling when we first arrived in this place. We always left the window open.”

  “The father of your favorite wife?” Flint asked. “Do you remember when he came back? Did he wake you?”

  Shaking his head, Quanah said, “I remember nothing, except falling to the floor and crawling toward the light, and I am not certain I even remember that. It seemed more like a dream.”

  “Could he who is gone,” Flint asked, “could he have blown out the lamp by mistake?”

  Quanah stared.

  “Could he have closed the window?” Daniel asked.

  First, Quanah wet his lips, then he clenched his fists. Lightning flashed, and the rain seemed to slacken as the thunder pealed somewhere to the east. “Why would he have done either of those things? You two are foolish boys. He who has traveled to The Land Beyond The Sun was no fool, which you two seem to think he was.”

  Daniel started to protest, but Quanah would not let him.

  “He was a puhakat, and a very wise man. I always listened to what he had to say, for he was a man who spoke with great wisdom. He never touched the taibo spirits that rob our young and old of their tact, their reason, their souls. If I told him that these lamps were not coal oil but gas … and this I did tell him … and that he should not blow them out, he would have remembered. He was very wise.” Angrily he rose one arm to lean on his elbow and hooked a thumb toward the window. “Nor would he have closed the window. As I once heard a Pale Eyes say … ‘One does not make hell any hotter.’”

  Daniel hung his head, and tried to explain. “We did not mean to insult a great puhakat. He was a man Tetecae and I always respected and admired. We just had to know these things.”

  “Why?”