Many others agreed, laughing, jeering, snorting and pounding their flat hands on their thighs in concert.
“It was not Kicking Bird who fooled you,” Lone Wolf said, agreeing with his younger brother, Red Otter, and instantly quieting the noisy ones. “The white man is the one to blame. He—not our chief—should be made to pay.”
“We are trapped now! What can we do?” asked Tau-ankia, Lone Wolf’s eldest son.
“Yes, what can we do, Lone Wolf? You have told the white men we would agree to whatever they demanded of us. What now?” asked Gui-tain, the nephew of Lone Wolf.
His eyes glowered at the young warrior, coming to share a place of power and respect among the Kiowa. “I agreed with what the white man wanted—so that he would free Satanta and Big Tree. While one is young, and has many winters left to him … the other is like me: growing old. A man never knows when he will enjoy his last summer. His last autumn. Perhaps never again to see the melting of another winter’s snow. Maybe never to feel himself grow strong within the moist pleasure of a woman. This is what guides my thoughts when I attempt to free Satanta.”
“There is more than one way to free our chiefs,” Eagle Heart said quietly above the hush come over the lodge at the end of Lone Wolf’s words. “More than one way.”
The old chief gazed across the fire at the warrior. Nodding slightly, Lone Wolf said, “What is it you speak of, Eagle Heart?” He grinned slightly, sensing his heart leap with anticipation.
Eagle Heart grinned back. “The white man does not want to give us back our chiefs. This is plain to see. If he does not—we simply take them.”
“How do we do this?” Kicking Bird asked, for the first time raising his eyes to face the rest of the council.
“Yes—I must know how we do this without causing a lot of Kiowa blood to spill.”
“Lone Wolf,” said Big Bow, seated beside Eagle Heart, “we can do nothing brave if we are not ready to spill Kiowa blood.”
His pride was pricked. He, a proven warrior of many battles with not only the Caddo, Tonkawa and Pawnee, but with the white man as well. Lone Wolf’s back straightened. “Do not lecture me, Big Bow. There is not a morning that will come as long as I live that I cannot match the bravest of you here. There is not a night fire to come that the stories of my coups will not overshadow the coups of any man in this lodge. Only Satanta’s record in war is greater than mine! Not yours—not any man’s here. Do you wish to challenge that truth, Big Bow?”
“Big Bow is only zealous, Lone Wolf,” explained Eagle Heart, placing a hand on his young friend’s shoulder. “He meant no challenge—”
“I must hear it from his lips,” Lone Wolf demanded.
Big Bow struggled at first, then finally relented with an apology, “I meant no challenge to my chief.”
“We are all as one in this,” Lone Wolf told the hushed ring of counselors and head men. “No man must shy from the very good prospect that he will die when next we go into the white man’s fort. It will be then that we free our chiefs!”
Most keened their war songs or trilled their tongues with victory shouts or yipped like coyotes.
“We must bring a few women with us!” shouted Gui-tain.
“Why?” asked Lone Wolf.
“The white man will see the women and never be suspicious of our plans to fight.”
“This is good,” Lone Wolf agreed. “Bring a dozen women to come to the white man’s council with our warriors. And give those women guns to carry under their blankets.”
“Will the Comanche join us in our plan?” asked Red Otter.
“You must ask them,” Kicking Bird replied before anyone else could. His voice had grown hard, for the first time in many winters, like the sharp edges of granite. “Go to them in the morning and tell them of our desire to include them in freeing our chiefs. They will be there when we pull our guns and shoot the white men at the tables—the Comanche deserve to know that we plan to spill our blood rather than bend down to kiss the dirty boots of the lying white men who have betrayed me for the last time!”
“Tell the Comanche we will make war together!” shouted Eagle Heart.
“Just as we have in days gone by,” said Big Bow, “Kiowa and Comanche fighting side by side! It is powerful medicine!”
“Then we are all agreed on this plan?” Lone Wolf asked, looking at his old friend.
“Yes,” answered Kicking Bird in that lodge heavy with renewed silence. “All we must do is to decide on the details. If the white man will not do as he promised, if he will not give us back our chiefs voluntarily—then we will take Satanta and Big Tree back by force.”
* * *
While the Kiowa and Comanche were meeting to plan war, the white man met to smooth the way for peace.
As much as Davis had promised his constituents back home and those influential stockmen who had accompanied him north to the reservation that he would hold firm to his demands of the Indians, the governor finally gave in under a relentless crusade led not only by Commissioner Smith and Superintendent Hoag, but with the lobbying of the Kiowa-Comanche agent, James Haworth himself.
“After all, Davis told them,” explained Sharp Grover, just back from a late-night meeting in Lieutenant Colonel Davidson’s office, “Haworth would be the man on the spot, right here—the one responsible for making the whole bargain work for both the tribes and the government.”
“You think he can do it?” Seamus Donegan asked.
“I figure he’s got the cut of a man who’ll give it a hell of a try, Irishman.”
“What’s Davis and his crowd think now?” Stillwell asked Grover.
“He’s been persuaded.”
“Finally, eh?” Jack said.
“What they going to do now?” Seamus asked. “They left the tribes pretty stirred up over that matter of the army keeping the two chiefs if the camps didn’t bring in five hostages.”
“From the looks of it, Davis realizes now he backed the tribes into a corner—where they had no choice but to cower or fight. Damned politicians anyways,” Grover muttered. “They can’t get it through their thick heads that a Injun cornered ain’t about to turn tail.”
“He’ll fight if he’s cornered, won’t he, Sharp?”
Grover nodded at Stillwell. “The army can’t catch ’em—but them warriors aren’t running just because their bowels turned to water. They’re running to stay ahead of the soldiers and to fight another day.”
“Looks like Davis and the army got to convince the tribes to sit back down for another peace council now,” Seamus said.
Grover nodded. “The lieutenant colonel is sending Phil McCusker to the villages this evening to ask them to come in for another talk tomorrow morning.”
“That soon?” Jack asked.
“This thing goes on any longer,” Grover replied, “tempers getting hotter and hotter—it’s likely to mean some blood spilled on that parade out there.”
The eighth of October. An autumn sun shown brightly on the many-hued leaves of the surrounding countryside encompassing Medicine Bluff and Cache creeks. The air itself captured the coming of winter, if not the chance of hope.
This time the chiefs and warriors from the two tribes assembled on the ground near the white man’s tables in a much more sullen and hostile mood than they had for the last council. Women were among the crowd, making Seamus feel a bit more at ease, although he did not like the eyes of most of those warriors who milled about between the seated chiefs and the cordon of buffalo soldiers Lieutenant Colonel Davidson had ordered out to ring the parade.
Something did not feel right as the Irishman stepped up beside Jack Stillwell and Sharp Grover, waving them behind the council tent with him.
“What is it?” Grover asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know,” Donegan admitted. “I just don’t like the idea of you two being up there with all them officials if all hell breaks loose.”
“You figure there’s trouble brewing, don’t you?” Stillwell inquired
.
“Just humor me, boys. And come with me over to Sergeant Waller’s outfit.”
The pair followed Donegan as the council got under way.
This time Governor Davis rose and addressed the tribes without any preliminaries or introductions, beginning even before Satanta and Big Tree had reached their chairs near the end of the long tables.
“I wish to announce to the great leaders of your tribes that I have reconsidered my demands delivered two days ago. Instead of waiting for the five raiders to be turned over to us … instead of waiting for all your people to come in to the reservation—I will now turn over your chiefs to your care.”
At the governor’s direction, the guards shuffled their two prisoners forward. With a rustle of chains, Davidson’s buffalo soldiers helped the chiefs from their shackles. The pair stood but a moment, rubbing wrists while the soldiers removed the irons from their ankles. That done, they looked with uncertainty at the Texas governor.
“You are free to return to your people,” Davis explained magnanimously, then waited for McCusker to translate. “Tell the two they are free men—yet they remain responsible to us for seeing that their men do not raid into Texas any longer.”
With a wide grin and undisguised pleasure, McCusker translated the decree into Kiowa. Seamus watched apprehensively as the chiefs made their way to their people. Everyone seemed stunned, except Davis and his staff, all of whom stood smiling at the reunion. It took a moment for the sudden release to sink in before the Kiowa rushed forward, chattering, singing, greeting their chiefs with joy.
“McCusker,” called Commissioner E. P. Smith, waving the interpreter over. “I want you to inform the chiefs that I will be holding a meeting with them about three o’clock.”
“You want them here?”
“Yes.”
“Should I tell them why you’re calling them here again?”
Smith appeared agitated at the answer. “All we’ve done is free the chiefs, McCusker. We haven’t begun to make a lasting peace with these people. Tell them the demands still hold—and Lone Wolf’s guarantee of those demands will stand as well. We have done what we said we would: releasing their chiefs. Now it is up to the tribes to do what they said they would to satisfy all our demands.”
McCusker flicked his knowing eyes at Grover, Stillwell and Donegan as the trio came up.
“I figure there’s no better time to give an Injun bad news than when he’s celebrating good news—is there, Sharp?” McCusker joked sourly.
“Let’s hope the Kiowa and Comanche decide to go along with what Lone Wolf guaranteed these government fellas here,” Grover replied.
When the sun had slipped halfway from mid-sky to the western horizon that afternoon, the chiefs and warriors again assembled, but not on the parade by the Sibley tent this time. Instead the Indians were directed by buffalo soldiers to the Fort Sill commissary, where blankets had been spread for the red dignitaries. What was more, this time Satanta and Big Tree sat squarely among their fellow leaders, looking gravely on the long table of white faces above starched collars or blue tunics. So many Indians had come that fully a third had to watch the proceedings from outside the commissary, contenting themselves with standing on the porch, where they crowded at doorways and windows when Commissioner Smith rose to speak.
“We do not need to be here long,” began the stern Quaker, glancing at McCusker to begin his translation. “You will remember the demands the government made of your bands two days ago. It is most important that you remember that you guaranteed to turn over to us five of the raiders who stole and killed across the Red River into Texas.”
There arose a disquieting murmur and shuffling among those Indians crowded into the tight commissary. Donegan eased his hand beneath the holster flap, finding the pistol butt small comfort at this anxious moment. Blankets were being loosened among those in the room.
“You have been asked to turn five of the guilty over within twenty-four hours,” Smith continued. “But you have failed to live up to your end of the bargain. You now have the next twenty-four hours to comply with this demand. Until this time tomorrow and no longer.”
“Or what?” demanded Lone Wolf, who stood suddenly from his place beside Satanta. “Or you will try to take back our chiefs?” He laughed loudly. “I think not, white man. We gave you our word that we would bring you five of the guilty Comanche … but that was when we were told our chiefs would be freed.”
“We freed your chiefs. But you did not bring us the five murderers.”
“You freed our chiefs this morning, white man. We are not so foolish as to think your demands began two days ago!”
“Lone Wolf is a fool if he thinks we will not put teeth into this demand,” Smith snapped, attempting a show of muscle. “You promised—and you will be a liar if you do not comply!”
McCusker had a hard time spitting out the word for fool, especially the word for liar. Those two expressions crashed harshly on the ears of those in the room and on the porch.
Lone Wolf waved down much of the angry, noisy protest as many blankets slid from the shoulders of both Kiowa and Comanche in the crowded room. Seamus glanced at the windows and doorways, realizing this would be a bad fix when it came to shooting in a matter of heartbeats. Not knowing what could save the bloodshed, he listened helplessly to McCusker’s translation of Lone Wolf’s next words.
“You gave us one day to bring you the five raiders. We will bring you five at this time tomorrow. No sooner. And, as true as I am to my word—no later than that. I will not play foolish with you … the way the Tehan chief played liar for us.”
“You sound like a crybaby, Lone Wolf!” sneered Smith. “Complaining that you don’t have enough time.”
McCusker had trouble translating the white official’s expression into Kiowa, but when it came out with the interpretation of a squalling, spoiled infant, exactly as Smith had intended it to, Lone Wolf appeared stung for the first time.
At the doorway, many of the young men who had overheard the explanation of the term clamored to get into the tight room. Some shouted to spill white blood in general.
Eagle Heart’s voice rose above the others’ as he cried out. “Lone Wolf—let me kill the old white fool who wants to kill our young men who go raiding into Tehas!”
“Blood’s gonna spill—you don’t shut your mouth, Commissioner!” growled Philip McCusker.
“How dare these savages question me!” Smith roared back above the commotion in the room heated with too many bodies and sudden anger. “I’m the one who can save their godless souls!”
“McCusker’s right!” said Lieutenant Colonel Davidson. The officer raised one arm, yelling for silence, while with his other he started to nudge Smith to the rear. “Calm them down best you can, McCusker.”
“Take your hands off me!” Smith snapped, drawing back from the officer.
“Your kind always does this, don’t you, Commissioner?”
“What are you—”
“Goes and gets trouble started because of your pigheaded attitudes … then leaves it for the army to come in and clean up your idiotic mistakes.”
As McCusker was hollering above the first rows of council delegates, Lone Wolf and Kicking Bird were shouting as well, all three attempting to calm the enraged warriors.
“You will each get a chance to talk when your time comes,” McCusker tried to explain to the youthful hotbloods. “When the chiefs have talked, then you will have your say.”
“I wish to speak to the white peace-talker with the heavy tongue.”
McCusker and the others, both white and Kiowa, turned to find a young Comanche chief getting to his feet amid the rest of his people seated on the plank floor.
“You are Cheevers?” asked the interpreter.
“I am,” the young warrior answered.
“Who is this?” inquired Superintendent Hoag.
“He is a powerful chief of one of the Comanche bands,” replied agent James Haworth. “I’m praying he can cal
m things. Phil, tell Cheevers he can talk.”
The young chief with expressive eyes and a rigid spine stepped from the crowd with a rustle of his blanket and stopped before the white peace delegates.
“Tell this Washington chief that I am a Comanche and that my people have been doing no wrong. We should not be asked to pay for any wrong done by the young men of other bands. I know there are bad men among all people—among white men as well as among red men. But among my people there are those who persist in doing these bad things contrary to the orders of the chiefs. These warriors are renegades whom we have cast out from our villages. They are the raiders who are bringing all this trouble onto our shoulders.”
“Do you know where they are, Cheevers?” asked McCusker.
The Comanche chief regarded his own warriors before he answered. “You will find them west of the Antelope Hills. Have your buffalo soldiers round them up soon. Understand that you may keep them as long as you choose, but do not ask these good men of either tribe to sacrifice themselves for the evil done by others.”
“No!”
The room reverberated with the shout, every man turning his attention to Black Horse, a war-chief in Cheever’s band.
“Yes—this must be, Black Horse!” argued the chief.
“Let the white man come to understand pain, Cheevers!” Black Horse repeatedly beat his chest with a fist, his other hand shaking his repeating rifle provocatively. Many of the other warriors from both tribes were stirred by this demonstration, muttering angrily, readying weapons for the showdown sure to come.
But just when all seemed ready to spill into a bloodbath, a half-dozen old Comanche warriors rose as one and pushed their way through the crowd of youthful belligerents to ring Black Horse. There, without a word, they seized the young provocateur and escorted him roughly from the council room. His angry protests gradually faded from the parade as an uneasy quiet settled over the entire assembly.
Into the unsettling quiet Kicking Bird rose and agreed with what the Comanche chief had declared to the white man. When he sat, a Kiowa sub-chief, Woman’s Heart, spoke his mind, in sympathy with Cheevers’ words.
Shadow Riders: The Southern Plains Uprising, 1873 (The Plainsmen Series) Page 21