Ranches had been overrun, the stock commandeered or driven off, the buildings burned to the ground. Many were little more than patches of tall weeds sprouting from the ashes, vines creeping over the few stones of ruined foundations still remaining.
But the pressure from the East was growing as hordes of settlers headed west to claim their piece of manifest destiny. The railroads probed westward like inquisitive fingers, cutting the huge buffalo herds of the great plains in two, then cutting the halves apart into smaller and smaller herds. The Buffalo hunters were doing their share, felling the great beasts by the hundreds of thousands, and as the herds shrank, more and more of the plains Indians were forced to face the inevitability of their future.
Within two years of the end of the war, the clamor from the East for an end to Indian depredations, with substantial sympathy among Easterners in general for the plight of the plains tribes, led to the creation of a Peace Commission, sponsored by Senator John Henderson, the chairman of the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs. Senator Henderson was sympathetic to the Indians, and the report commissioned for him blamed almost all of the difficulties on the white settlers.
The commission was to be comprised of seven men, three military leaders, and four civilians. The military contingent included Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman, the highest-ranking man in the army, Gen. W.S. Harney, who had significant Civil War accomplishments on his impressive résumé, and Gen. Alfred H. Terry, at that time the commander of the Department of Dakota.
Two of the civilian members were themselves retired generals, John Sanborn, practicing law in Minnesota, and C.C. Augur. The other two were a Methodist minister, Nathaniel Taylor, and a third former army man, Col. Samuel Tappan.
The commission had explicit instructions, straight from the White House, to settle the Indian difficulties once and for all, and to concentrate on four specific objectives: eliminating the causes of Indian unrest; convincing the plains tribes to settle down and take up farming; persuading them to leave the railroads alone; and making it clear that attacks on white settlements had to stop.
They met for the first time in St. Louis on August 6, 1867, and embarked on the riverboat St. Johns for their trip to the first stop, which was to be a council with the Indians of the northern plains, primarily the Sioux. They came away with a treaty that few believed the Indians genuinely understood, and fewer still expected to be observed, and headed then for Medicine Lodge, Kansas, on the southern branch of the Arkansas River, for their second big council, this time with the southern plains tribes.
They expected to meet representatives of the Kiowa, Arapaho, Kiowa-Apache and Comanche, and had more than ten thousand dollars’ worth of “gifts” in tow, which they expected to go a long way toward creating the bargaining flexibility they needed.
For the sake of security, they were accompanied by a contingent of the Seventh Cavalry under Maj. Joel Elliott, and had a gaggle of journalists, including no less a personage than Henry M. Stanley, in tow. The army, to make a bold impression, was dressed in full uniform at the council’s opening, and paraded to the small tent city erected for the commissioners at the site of the council.
Not to be outdone, the southern tribes, numbering more than five thousand warriors, staged a parade of their own, in full regalia, each brave in a war bonnet, mounted on his horse, and both horse and rider in full paint and feathers.
As they approached the site, they broke into formations and surrounded the main meeting area in five concentric rings, each tribe’s members with his fellows, and singing in his own language.
The commissioners had never seen anything like it, and the soldiers were more than a little uneasy. Despite the cavalry’s reputation and modern weaponry, they were badly outnumbered, and not one of them believed he would see the next morning if things were to get out of control. More than a few of them believed exactly that was bound to happen. Some of the more militant among the chiefs were already haranguing their own people, and even though there was only one interpreter present, who had fluency only in Comanche, it was soon apparent that negotiations were not going to go smoothly.
When he had received word of the council, Quanah was skeptical, and wanted no part of any settlement with the white man on the white man’s terms. He believed that any lasting peace had to be won on the battlefield, but he was enough of a pragmatist to know that he should be present to learn firsthand what the white men proposed.
He arrived on the first day of the council, alone, and took his place toward the rear of the Comanche contingent. Not yet regarded as a chief by the other Comanche leaders, he was highly respected for his accomplishments in battle, and they tried hard to get him to take part.
But Quanah would have none of it.
Chapter 23
October 1867
THE COUNCIL GOT OFF to a bad start. Major Elliott had taken a small group of officers and enlisted men to a nearby valley when word reached the waiting commission that a herd of buffalo was grazing.
The soldiers killed several of the animals for the sheer pleasure of shooting something and watching it die. They had no interest in eating the meat, and they were not interested in trophies. The Indians, already angered by the increasingly wanton slaughter of the animals on which they depended for most of their food and much else they needed to live, from clothing to shelter, were angry, and Satanta, the Kiowa chief who was known for his explosive temper and his contempt for all things the white men held sacred, protested.
He cornered General Terry. “Your blue coat soldiers killed many buffalo. They killed them and left them to rot. They didn’t take the skin to make robes, and they didn’t take the meat to feed themselves. Now the buffalo are covered with white worms and they are good for nothing. You wonder why the Kiowa don’t want the white man in Kiowa country. This is one reason why.”
Terry, unaware of what had gone on, was at a loss to explain it. “I’ll look into it, Chief,” he said. As soon as Satanta was gone, he called Major Elliott to his tent.
“One of the chiefs was complaining that soldiers were hunting buffalo. Look into it, would you, Major, and report back to me.”
Somewhat flustered, Elliott cleared his throat. “No need, General.”
“The hell there isn’t, Major. I want to know what happened. And I want to know yesterday. Now hop to it, Mister Elliott. That’s an order.”
“I know what happened. I was there.”
“You what?”
“I was there.”
“You mean to tell me you knew about this and didn’t stop it.”
Elliott loosened his collar, twisting his head from side to side. “I was part of the hunt, General. In fact, it was my idea.”
Terry exploded. “Damn you, Elliott! Are you out of your mind? We have five thousand redskins out there, half of them spoiling for a fight, and you go and hand them goddamned ammunition?”
“I didn’t see the harm in it, sir. There were thousands of the buffs, and we only shot a few.”
“How many?”
Elliott shrugged. “Twenty … maybe a few more. Not more than thirty, for sure.”
“And what did you plan to do with the buffalo once you shot them?”
“Nothing. Like I said, there were thousands of them. I didn’t see the harm.”
Terry took a deep breath. “Mister Elliott, I want the name of every man who participated in this outrage, and I want it now.” He pointed to his camp desk. “Sit down and make a list. And I want a full written report, as well. Then we’ll see about this.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, I didn’t think that … “
“I know you didn’t, Mister Elliott. And we’ll be lucky if we didn’t all waste our time coming out here, thanks to you. In fact, we’ll be lucky if we get to leave.”
Terry stormed out of the tent and grabbed the first soldier he saw. “Sergeant, I want you to get the rest of the commissioners and tell them to meet me in Taylor’s tent in ten minutes.”
It took less than that to explain
to his colleagues what had happened, and less time still to decide that all of the men had to be punished. They were confined to quarters pending disciplinary consideration, and Elliott was placed on report and relieved of his command for the duration of the council.
Later that morning, after the elaborate opening ceremonies and the usual diplomatic flourishes had been dispensed, the council got down to business.
Senator Henderson laid out the intentions of the great Father, as the Indians had come to think of the President. His speech was long-winded, and tried the ability of the sole translator present, Philip McCusker, who spoke only Comanche, leaving the Kiowa, Arapaho, and Kiowa-Apache to depend on those of their number who had a smattering, however inadequate, of the Comanche tongue. The language barrier alone was a significant impediment to the commission achieving its aims, but no one seemed to notice.
By the time Henderson was through explaining that the Great Father wanted to build schools and churches on reservations set aside for each of the tribes in attendance, teach them agricultural skills and provide them with annuities for an extended period as well as all the necessary farming implements and seed and livestock for their herds, the Indians were completely baffled.
Satanta, still angry over the buffalo slaughter, was the first speaker, and it was evident that he was in no mood to consider such absurdities as Henderson suggested.
“Two years ago I made peace with Generals Harney, Sanborn and Colonel Leavenworth at the mouth of the Little Arkansas. That peace I have never broken. When the grass was growing in the spring, a large body of soldiers came along the Santa Fe road. I had not done anything, and therefore I was not afraid. All the chiefs of the Kiowa, Comanche, and Arapaho are here today; they have come to listen to good words. We have been waiting here a long time to see you and are getting tired. All the land south of the Arkansas belongs to the Kiowa and Comanche, and I don’t want to give away any of it.”
That statement struck a responsive chord, and the entire throng of Indians seemed to press closer to the main council tent as Satanta continued.
“I love the land and the buffalo and will not part with it. I want you to understand well what I say. Write it on paper. Let the Great Father see it and let me hear what he has to say. I want you to understand, also, that the Comanche and the Kiowa don’t want to fight, and have not been fighting since we made the treaty. I hear a great deal of good talk from the gentlemen whom the Great Father sends us, but they never do what they say.”
He paused to wait for McCusker to translate and, once again, his words seemed to stir the crowd. There was a steady buzz as word spread, and a sudden hush descended when he resumed.
“I don’t want any of the medicine lodges within the country. I want the children raised as I was. When I make peace it is a long and lasting one—there is no end to it. We thank you for your presents.
“All the headmen and braves are happy. They will do what you want them to do, for they know you are doing the best you can. I and they will do our best also. When I look upon you, I know you are all big chiefs. While you are in this country we go to sleep happy and are not afraid. I have heard you intend to settle us on a reservation near the mountains. I don’t want to settle. I love to roam over the prairies. There I feel free and happy, but when we settle down we grow pale and die.”
The mention of reservations provoked a ripple from the Kiowa, who understood the reference immediately. The rest had to wait for the translation. It seemed as if a black cloud were slowly passing over the assembly as faces darkened.
“I have laid aside my lance and bow and shield,” Satanta went on, “and yet I feel safe in your presence. I have told you the truth. I have no little lies hid about me, but I don’t know how it is with the commissioners. Are they as clear as I am?
“A long time ago, this land belonged to our fathers; but when I go to the river, I see camps of soldiers on its banks. These soldiers cut down my timber; they kill my buffalo; and when I see that, my heart feels like bursting; I feel sorry. I have spoken.”
The commissioners waited for the last words to be translated, but could sense already that Satanta had made considerable impact on the assembled Indians. Ripples continued to spread through the five thousand warriors as word of what Satanta had said made its way toward the rear.
Quanah, far in the back, nodded his head. He understood exactly what Satanta feared, and he feared it for himself and his own people, as well. He knew the record of treaties made, and treaties broken. He knew there were concessions made and every year more were demanded. He knew the trickle of Anglos into the plains was slowly but surely rising to a flood. And he knew that, if it weren’t stopped, that flood would sweep them all, Comanche, Kiowa, Arapaho, away. To weaken now, to give in at all, would only swell that flood, and hasten the day when the only choice was that between living on the reservation or dying on the run.
Better to run now, he thought.
But there were some among the chiefs who did not feel so strongly as Satanta. Another Kiowa chief, Kicking Bird, rose to speak, and the excited hush settled down to a silence in which only the cry of birds could be heard, and the whisper of the wind in the tall grass as it swept across the valley.
When the first day’s session had ended, Quanah drifted from one council to another. He was welcome everywhere. His years of wandering from band to band, village to village, had won him friends not just among the various Comanche groups but among the Kiowa and Arapaho, as well.
When he entered the Kiowa council lodge, Satanta was just winding up a long articulation of his position, and Kicking Bird was shaking his head sadly.
“No,” Kicking Bird said, “you are wrong. The white man will honor the treaty because it is his treaty. He wants it. He has nothing to gain by not honoring it.”
Satanta nodded to Quanah, then spat in disgust at what Kicking Bird was saying. “You know nothing. The Cheyenne are here, those who are left. If you think the white man honors his treaties, ask the Cheyenne about Sand Creek. Black Kettle trusted the white man, and the blue coats attacked his village for no reason. But still, Black Kettle wanted peace, and so he forgave the white man. Then Chivington came to Sand Creek, and when he was finished, there were women and children thick as leaves dead on the ground. The women had their private places butchered by the blue coat soldiers. Is that your idea of peace? Because that is the white man’s idea of peace.”
“Then why did you say you were peaceful?” Kicking Bird demanded. “You said you had no little lies hidden about you. That was a lie.”
“It was a lie, maybe. But no more a lie than the lies the white men always tell us. I think Kicking Bird will make a foolish mistake if he signs this treaty paper. He will touch the pen and the commissioners will go to Washington and show the paper to the Great Father and say, ‘See, here is where Kicking Bird touched the pen. That means we can take his land. And we will give him what we feel like, when we feel like giving. And if we don’t feel like giving, well, then, Kicking Bird will not care because he doesn’t know any better.’ That is what happens when you make a treaty with the white man.”
The debate raged on into the small hours, and Quanah sat quietly, listening. It was not his place to speak in a Kiowa council lodge.
When the argument, still as unsettled as it had been when he arrived, finally adjourned for the night, Quanah spent some time with Satanta and the other skeptics, discussing what might be done if some of the chiefs signed the treaty.
“You know,” Satanta said, “that if just one Kiowa touches the pen, then the commissioners will say he speaks for all the Kiowa. They will say the treaty is made, and that all Kiowa have to move to the reservation. They will try to pen us up like they pen their sheep and their cattle. And if we let them, then we will be fit for nothing else. They can shear us for their wool and squeeze our teats for their milk because we will be like their livestock.”
“I would rather die on the open plains,” Quanah said. “It is no life to live like the wh
ite man lives. And everybody has seen how he treats the Indians on the reservation. The Cherokee are not free men. They think they are, but they are not. I don’t want to be like a Cherokee and wear cloth leggings and go to a wooden medicine lodge. I can stand under the stars and speak to the Great Spirit. But the Great Spirit does not hear the Indian anymore when he speaks. You have seen the pictures of the white man’s Great Spirit. He has white skin and blue eyes and wears his hair long on his face, just like the old white men do. But that is not my Great Spirit.”
Satanta nodded his agreement. “You are right. I will not believe this treaty. I will not touch the pen, and I will not live in a corral like a sheep. Kicking Bird can live in a cage like the ones the white women keep their little singing yellow birds in. But I will not.”
After much similar conversation, in which it was clear to Quanah that many among the Kiowa thought as he and Satanta did, the Kiowa chief led him outside. Taking him away from the lodges, he said, “I have seen a friend of yours.”
“Who?”
“Little Belly. He asked me if you were here and I said I did not know. I think he wants to see you about something important. You should find him. He is with the Kiowa of Kicking Bird, of course.”
Quanah, puzzled by the message, nodded. “I will,” he said.
“Quanah,” Satanta said, as the younger man was about to walk away. “Whatever the other Comanche chiefs do, don’t touch the pen. It will mean nothing but trouble for you. You will have trouble either way, but at least you will not die of a broken heart.”
Quanah nodded, but he was starting to think that was exactly what he would die of.
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