Brothers of the Buffalo

by Joseph Bruchac

  “Adobe Walls,” Henry Imes said. “Did I ever hear tell anything about that place?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Josh said. He paused and looked around at the other men sitting on their bunks, studying the floor of packed red dirt at their feet. “Adobe Walls,” Josh repeated, a little louder this time. “Any of you all know what happened there just about ten years ago?”

  “No,” Wash replied before Josh could say the name a third time. “I have not heard of what happened there just about ten years ago. But I would bet a handsome sum that you are about to tell us whether we want to hear it or not.”

  Henry and Charley chuckled.

  Rufus, ever the serious type, just looked grim. “Don’t know as I want to hear no more about Indian massacres,” he said.

  Josh paid no heed. Like a man tilling a field whose blade has bumped over a stone, he plowed on. “Adobe Walls,” he said, “was a fight for the ages. Kit Carson and about three hundred soldiers held off three thousand Comanches and Kiowas. Indians was buzzing around the adobe walls of that fort like mad hornets. Bullets flew thicker than hail stones in a prairie downburst. But Kit Carson stayed cool. Yes, indeed. Colonel Carson and his men killed half of them Indians and retreated without losing a man. Now there was a fight you will never hear the like of again.”

  “P-tah!” Charley let loose a splat of tobacco to knock down a red-eyed horsefly that was unwise enough to land on the tent post nearest him. “Adobe Walls? Know what I reckon?”

  He pulled his right foot up into his lap and began to rub it between his palms like an Indian starting a fire with a stick. It was the same foot from which the toe had been removed after the frostbite of the previous winter. That foot was always bothering him. It seemed that poor Charley’s foot always felt cold now, even in the heat of summer.

  “I reckon,” Charley said, his voice slow as molasses dripping, “that we have heard the last of any tale of heroism attached to Adobe Walls. Next thing we are like to hear of will be the massacre of all them buffalo hunters and traders fool enough to venture out there.”

  “Amen,” Rufus said, his voice as deep as a well.

  Wihio was going along.

  Over his back was a sack.

  In it were four fat rabbits.

  Wihio had tricked them.

  He would eat well that night.

  Ah, Wihio said, it is good to be smart.

  No one can fool me, for I am Wihio.

  Then he saw Coyote.

  Coyote had a bag.

  It was bigger than Wihio’s.

  What do you have there?

  Wihio said.

  I have only old dry bones,

  just dry bones in this sack,

  Coyote replied.

  Ah, Wihio said to himself,

  Coyote is trying to trick me.

  That sack must be full

  of something really good.

  Maybe fresh buffalo meat.

  Coyote, Wihio said, Let us trade.

  I have four fat rabbits here.

  No, Coyote said, that would not be fair.

  All I have here is old dry bones.

  You would not want them.

  Brother, Wihio said,

  you cannot refuse me.

  Come, let us trade.

  Coyote shook his head.

  You will not like what is in my bag.

  But Wihio insisted.

  He asked four times.

  So Coyote took Wihio’s sack

  and gave his bag to Wihio.

  Our trade is done, Coyote said.

  Then he ran off.

  And when Wihio opened Coyote’s bag

  all that he found there were old dry bones.

  THE TEST OF ISA-TAI’S MEDICINE

  They left their camp behind. They had followed the south bank of the river throughout the day, and now dusk began to settle on the plains. They were getting close to the brutal town of the buffalo hunters. Close to the place where the skins of their sacred animals were piled higher than the tops of the tallest lodges.

  “We stop now,” Quanah said. “We get ready.”

  Everyone got off their horses. They made bundles of everything that would not go into battle with them. They tied those bundles high up in the branches of the nearby trees. It was a necessary thing to do. The prairie wolves were always watching the curious doings of men. If they left their possessions on the ground, they would return to find everything torn apart. That is what those prairie wolves always did, whether searching for food or just making mischief.

  Wolf chose a cottonwood four times his height. He tied his bundle in a crotch near the top of the tree. Then he climbed down to where Wind was patiently waiting for him.

  Although Wind was a very big horse, he was strong and agile. He was as swift as the name Wolf had given him when he rescued him from the white horse thieves. Before that, judging by the brand on his hip and the spur scars on his sides, he had been the mount of some cavalryman who had not treated him well. But as soon as Wolf saw him and he saw Wolf, it was as if something passed between them. They were made for each other.

  Wind nuzzled Wolf as he uncoiled his riding rope. He passed the rope around Wind’s body a few hand widths behind his front legs. He secured the second loop to keep it from slipping back across the big horse’s chest. Around him, other men were doing the same. Another, smaller loop of rope was already braided into the horse’s mane.

  Those ropes would be put to good use. With one leg under the longer rope tied around Wind, he could lean so far over that he would no longer be seen from the other side. Shielded by the horse’s body, he could fire his gun or shoot his bow from underneath the big animal’s belly. Then he could grasp the mane loop to pull himself back upright. Many times in battle, white men were fooled by that move and thought that they had shot a man off his horse. If Wolf was actually knocked from Wind’s back by a bullet, his horse would stop and walk back, waiting for him to remount.

  Wolf checked his arrows. He counted his bullets. He made sure that the straps of his shield were fastened properly. The firelight was bright enough for him to see the circle of men getting ready around him. To his left, Gray Head and others who had won many eagle feathers in war were shaking out their bonnets. They were making certain each feather was straight and securely tied. Every man had put on his best war clothing.

  But this is not the end of our preparations, Wolf thought.

  Until then, everything he had done had seemed right. But he was not so sure of what they were to do next.

  “Come,” a loud nasal voice shouted. “Come be made bulletproof!”

  Wolf went to join the others answering Isa-tai’s call. Isa-tai stood there with the yellow paint he had prepared. He stood next to the fire. His eyes reflected the flames and glowed red. He wore nothing but ochre paint, the paint that was to be put on all the men and all the horses.

  “No bullet will pierce through this sacred paint,” the little prophet shouted in his squeaky voice as the yellow color was spread on one man after another.

  Finally, everyone was painted. As the paint dried on Wolf’s face, on his arms and chest, it pulled at his skin. He moved his mouth and felt the paint on his cheeks crack.

  The Comanches, headed by He Bear, Tabanica, and Quanah, led them out. They went by fours. They walked their horses instead of riding them. That made the sound of their horses’ hooves striking the earth much quieter.

  They crossed the shallow river and moved up toward the hill. Their attack would come from above. Slowly they moved. Slowly, slowly. Wolf’s breath felt thick in his throat. He squeezed the lead rope tightly to lessen the shaking in his hands. He could smell the sweat of many men and horses around him in the dark.

  It took a long time to reach that hilltop. But it was still before dawn when they got there. Some men simply lowered themselves to the ground by their horses. The lead ropes wrapped around their wrists, they returned to sleep. Others were too excited to close their eyes.

  “Who among us w
ill be the first to strike the enemy?” Too Tall whispered.

  “I think it will be Horse Road,” Too Short whispered back.

  Wolf looked over toward his best friend. He was only a few hand widths away. But all Wolf could see was his silhouette against the stars. Wolf began to sing a strongheart song under his breath.

  A soft wind was in their faces. It was blowing away from the buffalo hunters’ camp. He Bear and Tabanica were seated to Wolf’s left. He watched as they checked that wind by holding up wet fingers. Then they took out small pipes. They could smoke tobacco without the scent carrying down to the white men below.

  It was quiet, so quiet Wolf could hear the chuffing of the many horses. He listened to them breathe and scrape their hooves on the ground. Like most of their riders, those horses were not sleeping. They knew something would happen soon.

  Will dawn ever come? Wolf thought. Calm as the night was, there was no calm within him. He felt like a bowstring drawn back so far that it was about to break the bow. Too Tall and Too Short were silent. But they kept wrapping and unwrapping their blankets as they tried to sleep.

  Horse Road slid closer to Wolf. “The little medicine man said they would all be asleep,” he whispered.

  “So he said,” Wolf replied.

  “He said the fight would be quick and we would kill them all.”

  “Hee’he’e,” Wolf said. He didn’t feel like talking. His throat was too dry. The yellow paint made his face feel as tight as a drumhead.

  Horse Road shook his head. “A fast fight would not be good. Let us hope that the fight will not be too quick. I hope enough of them will fight. Then there will be a good battle tomorrow.”

  Wolf lay back. He looked up at the dark sky and closed his eyes. He knew he would not be able to sleep. But when he opened eyes again, Horse Road was gone. The first light was starting to show itself in the east. Gray Head was leaning over him.

  “Nomo’ke,” Gray Head said. “Let’s go.”

  As he spoke those words, a meadowlark flew up behind him, singing to greet the day.

  Wolf rose. Leading his horse, he followed Gray Head to the place where everyone was gathered. Isa-tai was there. He was sitting on his horse just below the crest of the hill, out of sight of the camp of the buffalo hunters. He was still naked. But now he had added a little crown of sage stems to his head.

  “Hear me,” he said dramatically. “I must not move from this spot. For my medicine to work, I must stay away from the battle.”

  That does not surprise me, Wolf thought.

  Isa-tai raised his arms over his head. “The guns of the stinky tai-bos will be useless,” he said. “The bullets from your guns will find their hearts. Their bullets will not reach us.”

  Wolf wondered about that. He knew what guns were carried by white buffalo hunters. They were long-barreled big .50s. He thought back to the time when he had watched his little Buffalo Soldier shoot one such gun. He had shot it a long way with great accuracy.

  Wolf looked at his own rifle. It was a Spencer, a short-barreled gun for close fighting. So were the Winchester rifles that other men were carrying. It was true that they were repeaters. Each gun carried six or seven bullets. But their range was short. It would be hard to hit anything farther away than they could reach with arrows.

  Leaving Isa-tai behind, all the others rode to the hilltop. The only thing moving below was a thin wisp of smoke from the chimney of the biggest building. Even the horses and mules in the corral were standing still. Perhaps the buffalo killers were sleeping. Perhaps it would be as Isa-tai had promised. Perhaps his medicine would work.

  Or perhaps not.

  Wolf looked to his right and then his left. At least two hundred fifty men were ready to attack. They would outnumber the stinky white men ten to one. The dawn wind picked up, bringing the rank scent of the camp up the hill.

  “Ahe!” someone said next to Wolf. It was one of the Comanches, Timbo, the son of He Bear. He was Wolf’s own age. He had joked with Wolf the day before. “I am worried about those white buffalo hunters,” he had said. “I have heard they smell so bad that their odor may knock us off our horses!”

  Now Timbo grinned at Wolf. “Ahe!” he said again, pinching his nose with his fingers.

  “Yes,” Wolf agreed. “Nasty.”

  “We will have to bathe a lot after we wipe them out.”

  Wiping out those stinky white men in the camp below. That was what Quanah and Isa-tai wanted.

  What do I want? Wolf thought. To count coup? To be among the first to touch an enemy with his hand, a coup stick, a quirt, or a bow? He knew that was what was in the heart of Horse Road. It was so for many of the other young men around him going into their first big battle. They were eager for nothing more than to win honor.

  All I want now, Wolf thought, is for this battle to start. He squeezed his knees tight against Wind’s sides as he walked him forward. He felt sweat dripping down his wrist. His breath was shallow and shaky. He could smell his own sweat. It still held the scent of the sweetgrass that they had placed on the hot stones in the sweat lodge. Before leaving camp the day before, all of the Cheyennes had gone into the sweat lodge that was run by Gray Head.

  Nearly everyone was on the hilltop. Horses were stomping their feet. Some were breathing hard. Their heavy muscles rippled as if currents of water flowed beneath their skin.

  Gray Head pushed his pony in front of the Cheyenne men. He held up his left hand, palm toward them.

  “We will charge in a line together,” he said. “Wait for the sound of the war horn.” He pointed with his chin to their left, where Loud Voice sat on his horse next to Quanah and Timbo. The yellow Buffalo Soldier had on more of Isa-tai’s bright ochre paint than anyone else. His mouth was open. His narrow face wore a twisted grin.

  “Now!” Quanah shouted.

  Loud Voice lifted his horn. His cheeks puffed out. He blew, and a shrill high sound came from the horn. Charge!

  As one, all two hundred fifty men charged headlong down the hill in one wide line. Dust flew up in red clouds. Hooves on the hard ground sounded like thunder. Some men began making high, ululating war cries.

  We will sweep through the camp of the stinky white men like a fire through dry prairie grass! Wolf thought. Nothing will stop us!

  Then something did.

  Their minds and eyes fixed on the battle ahead, no one had noticed what lay at the base of the hill. Horses and men began falling around Wolf as if they were struck by the clubs of invisible giants.

  Out of the corner of one eye, Wolf saw them, saw the mounds and holes of the prairie dog town they had just ridden into. Saw them too late. Wind’s foot caught in one of the holes, and the big horse stumbled. Wolf found himself flying through the air. He ducked his head but still landed with a thud on the hard earth.

  He sat up, slowly. His back and side felt like one great bruise. Somehow he was still holding onto his Spencer.

  Wind! he thought. Has his leg been broken?

  He rose to his knees, turned. Wind was there, unhurt. The big horse came up and bumped Wolf with his head. Wolf grasped the rope around the horse’s chest and pulled himself to his feet. He looked around. Others who had hit the ground were rising, limping downhill. Twenty or more had been thrown. But no one seemed badly hurt. Nor had even one horse broken a leg. That, at least, was good.

  But the rest of those who had been charging were now far ahead. Wolf shaded his eyes with one hand. Horse Road was among those who had avoided the prairie dog holes. He would be among the first to reach the buffalo hunters’ camp. Wolf’s heart sank. He would not be by his friend’s side when the fight began.

  Wind nickered, bobbing his head up and down as Wolf held onto the chest rope. Wolf straightened up. He felt stiff and sore as a man of eighty winters. But he could not stop now. As he pulled himself up onto the big horse’s back, he heard the first sounds of war below. Many guns being fired.

  He kicked his heels into Wind’s sides, urged him into a trot. As they went
the rest of the way down the hill, he could see what was happening. It seemed the white men had not been asleep as Isa-tai had promised. Spurts of flame and smoke were bursting from all the windows. Guns were even being fired from between chinks in the walls of the log and sod buildings. The cracking of rifles was like the noise cottonwood trees make when struck by the club of Frost in deep winter. Among the sound of the rifles was also the popping of handguns. And, now and then, another sound, a thudding boom, its voice as deep as thunder. The sound of a big .50 buffalo gun.

  Their military line had broken like a snake cut into pieces by a knife. Wolf heard Loud Voice’s horn sounding the call to fall back and re-form. No one paid any attention to it. Men and horses were on the ground. Some men had been shot. Others had dropped off their horses to take shelter among the wagons outside the corral or to crouch behind buffalo carcasses. Most of those still on horseback were trying to make themselves harder to hit. They were staying in motion and dodging. They were galloping around and back and forth, firing from horseback into the four buildings.

  There was so much confusion. So much smoke, so much noise. The shouting of the men as they made war cries. The screams of wounded horses. As he rode closer, Wolf tried to find his friends. With the yellow paint on everyone’s bodies, it was difficult to tell men apart.

  Then he noticed one group of young men who were not taking shelter or riding back and forth. They were trotting right toward the biggest building. They were riding right up, ignoring the shots being fired at them.

  “Stinky white men,” the one in front shouted. “Come out and fight!”

  Wolf knew that voice as well as he knew his own. Horse Road. He was at the head of that small spearhead of brave men. Blood flowed down his chest from a wound high in his shoulder. It made a red line through the worthless yellow paint. That red line went straight toward his heart.